LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


V 


THE 

COMPLAINING  MILLIONS  OF  MEN 

a  Hovel 


BY 

EDWARD   FULLER 


"  Tlie  complaining  millions  of  men 
Darken  in  labour  and  pain " 

— MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


NEW    YORK 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

1  893 


Copyright,  1892,  by  EDWARD  FULLER. 


Copyright,  1893,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 


All  righte  reserved. 


WITH    THE    SINCERE    REGARDS    OF   ONE    OK    HIS    MANY   PUPILS 

IX  THE  PROFESSION  OF  JOURNALISM,  WHICH  HE  HAS 

DOXE    SO    MUCH    TO    MAKE    HONOURABLE 


CONTENTS 


CHAP.  PAGE 

I.    FRANCIS  BARETTA    .       .     ,. 1 

II.    ARUAGON    STREET 10 

III.  TERRA    INCOGNITA 22 

IV.  "  NEVER   IS   A   LONG    WORD  " 34 

V.    THE    ENEMIES    OF    SOCIETY 42 

VI.    POOR    MAUD  ! 53 

VII.    "  UNDER    WHICH    KING,    BEZONIAN  ?" 66 

VIII.    MILDRED    IS    DOUBTFUL 76 

IX.    BARETTA    IS    CONFIDENT 85 

X.    "  NO    ONE    WILL    EVER    LOVE   YOU    AS    I    DO  !" 96 

XI.    PLAYING    WITH    FIRE 107 

XII.    AN    EXPLOSION 115 

XIII.  BARETTA    LEAVES    ARRAGON    STREET 125 

XIV.  DAISY  IS  GLAD  TO  SEE  PHILIP 135 

xv.  DAISY'S  STRATAGEM 146 

XVI.    THE    NOBLE    HOUSE    OF    SMOLZOW 155 

XVIJ.    "IT   WILL    BE   A   GREAT   CHANGE" 166 

XVIII.    THE    LION    OF   THE    HOUR          176 

XIX.    AN   UNEXPECTED    VISITOR 186 

XX.    A    PLAN    OF    CAMPAIGN 195 

XXI.    TAKEN    AT   THE    FLOOD 206 

XXII.    "  LA    LUTTE    POUR    LA    VIE " 219 

XXIII.  BARONIAL    HOSPITALITY 234 

XXIV.  "  YOU    HAVE    MADE    ME  WHAT    I    AM  !" 247 

XXV.    AN  EMISSARY 257 

XXVI.    "HOW    CAN    SHE    ENDURE    HIM?" 269 

XXVII.    THE    DIPLOMACY   OF  HERR   EMIL                                             ....              .  278 


CHAP.  PAOB 

XXVIII.    BARETTA    REFUSES    TO  YIELD 288 

XXIX.    HERR    EMIL    SETS    A    TRAP 297 

XXX.    A    FRUITLESS    MISSION 306 

XXXI.    MAUD    BECOMES    ALARMED 31C 

XXXII.    A    DESPERATE    HOPE 327 

xxxiii.  BARETTA'S  HUMILIATIO»N 335 

xxxiv.  BARETTA'S  REVENGE 344 

XXXV.    "  THERE   ARE    BLIND   WAYS   PROVIDED  " 354 

XXXVI.     "I    WILL   SAVE    HIM!" 364 

XXXVII.    A   CRY   FOR   HELP 373 

XXXVIII.     Mill)    HEARS   THE    TRUTH 382 

XXXIX.  HEMMED  IN 390 

XL.  THE  WAY  OUT 399 

XLI.  MRS.  CADWALLADER'S  PROPHECY    .     ,  .  407 


THE  COMPLAINING  MILLIONS  OF  MEN 


CHAPTER  I 
FRANCIS  BARETTA 

"You  must  come  to  me  on  Thursday  ;  there  are  so  many  peo- 
ple I  want  you  to  meet." 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Chilton,"  said  the  young  man,  flushing 
slightly.  "  I  shall  be  very  grateful  for  the  privilege." 

"  Oh,  don't  take  it  too  seriously."  Mrs.  Chilton  gazed  anxious- 
ly down  the  street — a  rather  dingy  thoroughfare,  choked  with 
traffic.  "  Isn't  that  my  car  coming — a  yellow  one  ?" 

"  There  seems  to  be  a  blockade — a  big  cart  is  standing  across 
the  track." 

"  I  believe  Charles  Street  is  just  the  very  worst  street  in  Boston. 
I  can't  remember  getting  a  Belt  Line  car  without  having  to  wait 
and  wait.  That  is  the  trouble  with  living  at  the  South  End.  Oh, 
of  course  you  know  my  number,  Mr.  Baretta —  37  Pembroke 
Square.  Do  you  think  you  can  find  it?" 

"  Yes,  thank  you ;  I  am  beginning  to  know  Boston  well  in  these 
days — some  parts  of  it,  I  dare  say,  that  few  Bostonians  know." 

"Ah,  your  work — all  my  friends  will  be  anxious  to  know 
about  that." 

"  It  isn't  among  them  " — began  the  young  man,  with  a  frown 
which  made  his  dark  face  more  forbidding  than  it  was  by  nature. 
But  Mrs.  Chilton  interrupted  him. 

"  Now  don't  say  anything  rude.  Wait  until  Thursday — then 
you  may  be  as  rude  as  you  like.  They  will  like  you  the  better 
for  it.  Well,  there  is  my  car  at  last."  Mrs.  Chilton  turned  a 

A  1 


cheerful  face,  with  some  reminiscences  of  rouge  and  powder  about 
the  eyes,  towards  her  companion,  and  put  out  her  hand  in  token 
of  farewell.  "  Thursday — 37  Pembroke  Square." 

Baretta  lifted  his  hat,  then  waved  to  the  driver  of  the  ap- 
proaching conveyance  to  pull  up  his  horses.  "  At  what  time  ?" 
he  asked,  as  the  car  came  to  a  stop. 

Mrs.  Chilton  turned  on  the  step  and  looked  back  at  him. 
"  Oh,  any  time  after  four,"  she  said,  with  a  look  and  tone  which 
expressed  surprise. 

Baretta  lifted  his  hat  a  second  time,  and  fell  back  to  the  curb 
with  a  conviction  that  somehow  he  had  made  a  mistake,  and  that 
Mrs.  Chilton  would  have  snubbed  him  if  she  had  had  a  better 
opportunity.  He  was  always  making  mistakes  when  he  was 
talking  with  people  of  her  sort,  who  placed  a  higher  value,  it 
seemed  to  him,  upon  the  accessories  of  human  intercourse  than 
upon  the  essentials.  He  could  never  get  used  to  picking  and 
choosing  his  words — to  thinking  whether  what  he  did  was  the 
right  thing  or  not.  There  were  more  important  matters  to  con- 
sider than  these.  It  Avill  be  seen  that  this  young  man  had  but 
a  slight  acquaintance  with  that  order  of  society  in  which  certain 
observances  come  by  instinct  and  are  taken  for  granted.  He 
thought  that  good-breeding  had  to  be  acquired,  like  Latin,  by  a 
painful  mental  process.  Consequently  he  experienced  some 
qualms  at  the  prospect  of  appearing  at  Mrs.  Chilton's  on  Thurs- 
day. Mrs.  Chilton  held  no  formal  receptions,  but  she  was  always 
at  home  to  her  friends  on  that  day.  She  was  a  woman  who 
liked  to  see  people  ;  and  she  enjoyed  the  desultory  and  harmless 
gossip  that  diffused  itself  around  her  with  each  fresh  arrival. 
She  had  won  no  inconsiderable  reputation  in  literature.  She 
wrote  bad  stories  and  good  poems.  Youth  and  beauty  were 
long  ago  things  of  the  past — Baretta  had  observed  the  traces  of 
rouge  and  powder  as  he  talked  with  her — but  she  was  still  fond 
of  both,  and  usually  managed  to  gratify  her  fondness.  She 
understood  perfectly  how  to  be  agreeable  to  those  who  were 
inexperienced  enough  to  be  just  a  little  awed  by  her  eminence. 
There  was  always  a  pretty  girl  or  two  at  these  informal  gather- 
ings to  pour  tea,  and  young  men  who  were  trying  to  make  their 
way  on  the  newspapers  and  magazines  invariably  received  from 

2 


her  a  cordial  welcome.     She  had  her  little  vanities,  her  small 
weaknesses,  but  her  kindness  of  heart  was  unfailing. 

Baretta  had  an  exaggerated  idea  of  her  importance — he  had 
so  often  seen  her  name  in  the  society  journals  —  and  he  felt 
that  it  was  a  great  triumph  to  be  admitted  to  anything  like 
intimacy  with  her.  Few  experiences  in  his  life  hitherto  had 
been  calculated  to  flatter  his  vanity,  which  even  without  encour- 
agement was  very  great.  He  felt  that  he  possessed  more  than 
ordinary  mental  powers,  but  that  circumstances  had  been  against 
their  fullest  exercise.  His  childhood  had  certainly  been  depress- 
ing enough.  His  father  was  a  barber  —  a  man  of  uncertain 
nationality,  although  he  called  himself  a  Hungarian.  His  mother 
had  been  a  factory-girl  in  a  New  England  town — she  died  when 
Francis  was  only  five  years  old — and  her  lineage  was  worse  than 
inconspicuous.  As  long  as  he  could  remember  his  life  had  been 
uncertain  and  migratory.  The  elder  Baretta  had  experienced 
more  than  his  share  of  the  changes  of  fortune.  But  he  had  a 
cheerful  temperament,  and  he  never  made  any  difficulty  about 
seeking  fresh  fields  and  pastures  new.  In  this  wandering  life 
Francis  shared,  acquiring  much  experience  of  men  and  things  at 
the  expense  of  that  confiding  simplicity  which  is  properly  char- 
acteristic of  youth.  A  cheap  boarding-house — and  the  succes- 
sion of  these  in  the  boy's  experience  went  on  with  dreary  unre- 
mittingness  —  is  not  an  ideal  place  either  for  moral  or  for 
intellectual  development.  But  some  faculty  within  him,  de- 
rived from  one  knows  not  what  remote  ancestor,  made  him  inde- 
pendent to  a  very  striking  degree  of  his  environment.  His  days 
at  school  were  few  and  irregular ;  but  he  learned  to  read  and  to 
write,  and  he  accumulated  facts  and  drew  inferences  from  them 
almost  without  learning.  Thus  he  early  discovered  that  he  was  to 
all  intents  and  purposes  a  waif  and  stray  upon  the  turbid  current 
of  the  world,  and  that  whether  he  sank  or  swam  depended  en- 
tirely upon  himself.  He  recalled  his  first  resolution  to  cut  loose 
from  the  wretched  parental  wreck  with  singular  vividness  on 
this  bright  afternoon  in  early  April,  as  he  walked  up  Beacon 
Street  in  the  glowing  sunshine.  Perhaps  this  was  because  the 
memory  of  the  few  words  with  Mrs.  Chilton  seemed  to  justify 
that  first  plunge  of  long  ago.  He  shuddered  as  he  thought  of 

3 


the  darkness  of  the  waters  in  which  he  had  struggled.  Well, 
he  had  at  least  proved  his  right  to  live ;  and  there  were  great 
things  in  the  future  for  him — of  that  he  felt  confident.  On 
Thursday  afternoon  he  might  take  the  first  step  towards  achiev- 
ing some  of  them. 

Another  young  man  coming  down  the  steps  of  that  courtly 
stone  mansion  which  is  now  the  Bowdoin  Club  stopped  as  he 
saw  Baretta  approaching  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  How  are  you  ?"  he  asked,  cordially.  "  Where  have  you  been 
keeping  yourself  for  the  past  two  months  ?" 

Instead  of  answering  this  question,  Baretta  stared  first  at  the 
speaker  and  then  at  the  house  from  which  he  had  come.  "  Do 
you  belong  to  the  Bowdoin  ?"  was  what  he  said  at  last. 

Baretta's  manner  was  abrupt,  and  the  other  young  man  flushed 
suddenly  as  if  he  felt  that  it  was  also  offensive.  "No,  I  don't," 
he  answered  shortly.  uDo  you?" 

"  Me  !"  cried  Baretta.  He  had  done  much  to  educate  himself, 
but  there  were  times  when  he  lapsed  from  the  correct  use  of  his 
mother-tongue.  "  Don't  be  absurd,  Yates."  He  paused  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  he  added,  with  an  assumption  of  carelessness 
which  was  not  quite  free  from  embarrassment,  "  Of  course,  I 
didn't  mean  to  offend  you." 

"Offend  me !"  repeated  Yates,  with  a  laugh.  " My  dear 
fellow,  it's  a  great  thing  to  belong  to  the  Bowdoin.  But  as 
for  myself,  I  sometimes  wonder  that  they  let  me  into  the  Pil- 
grim." 

"  I  dare  say  there  are  differences  which  it  takes  you  swells  to 
comprehend." 

"  See  here,  Baretta !"  Yates  had  turned  to  walk  up  the  street 
with  his  companion,  but  as  he  spoke  he  stopped  suddenly  and 
faced  him.  "  I  wish  you'd  drop  that  nonsensical  talk.  Rave 
against  capital  all  you  like,  but  for  Heaven's  sake  respect  the 
boundaries  between  Society  and  Bohemia,  and  remember  that 
I  live  in  Bohemia." 

"  I  will  remember,"  said  Baretta.  He  had  apparently  taken 
the  rebuke  in  good  part,  but  there  was  a  sudden  gleam  of  anger 
in  his  eyes.  "Perhaps,"  he  added,  presently,  "  you  will  see  me 
in  Bohemia  before  very  long." 

4 


"  Oh,  so  you  are  going  on  an  exploring  expedition  in  the  en- 
emy's country  before  you  destroy  it." 

"  It  is  you  who  are  talking  nonsense  this  time,  Yates,"  said 
Baretta,  calmly.  "  But  you  are  like  all  the  rest.  That  is  why 
when  Socialism  wins  it  must  be  destructive  rather  than  construct- 
ive. The  partisans  of  the  established  order  misrepresent  its 
aims  so  completely,  and  oppose  them  so  bitterly,  that  it  has  no 
choice  between  surrender  and  war  to  the  death.  And  the  So- 
cialists will  never  surrender." 

"  I  suppose  that  you  have  talked  that  sort  of  stuff  so  long  you 
really  believe  it." 

"  Stuff !  Oh,  well,  they  called  the  talk  about  popular  rights 
stuff  once.  And  then  came  the  French  Revolution." 

"  The  French  Revolution  !  That's  the  final,  convincing  argu- 
ment. I  never  knew  you  fellows  to  fail  to  bring  it  out.  But  it 
isn't  half  so  efficacious  a  threat  as  you  think.  We've  had  An- 
archists and  bomb-throwers  and  Johann  Most  since  then,  and 
we've  found  out  what  arrant  cowards  the  whole  gang  are.  No, 
Baretta,  don't  talk  about  the  French  Revolution.  Threaten  us 
with  Nationalist  clubs — that  will  be  worse." 

"  There  is  no  use  in  discussing  the  subject  with  you,"  retort- 
ed Baretta.  "  And  I  don't  want  to  lose  my  temper." 

Yates  laughed  again.  He  was  a  tall,  fair  young  man,  with 
keen  blue  eyes  and  a  sweeping  blond  mustache.  "  Well,  let 
us  agree  that  I  am  unsympathetic  and  stupid,  and  tell  me  about 
this  excursion  into  Bohemia." 

"  Oh,  that !"  said  Baretta,  contemptuously.  "  It  is  nothing 
worth  talking  about." 

"  That  must  be  the  reason  that  it  interests  me,"  Yates  de- 
clared. The  two  young  men  had  now  reached  the  corner  of 
Park  Street,  and  Yates  turned  to  go  down  the  hill  towards  Tre- 
mont  Street.  "  Come  over  to  my  rooms,  Baretta,  and  let  me  hear 
the  whole  story." 

"  I  haven't  any  story  to  tell." 

"  That's  what  Canning's  knife-grinder  said,  but  I  am  not  phi- 
lanthropist enough  to  kick  over  your  wheel." 

Baretta  laughed,  although  he  did  not  understand  the  allusion 
in  the  least.  But  he  made  it  a  rule  never  to  confess  ignorance 

5 


of  anything.  He  had  educated  himself,  and  he  did  not  like  to 
admit  that  there  were  any  imperfections  in  the  work.  "  Oh, 
well,  I  will  come  with  you,"  he  said,  "  but  I  can  tell  you  in  a  word 
what  I  mean.  I  am  going  to  Mrs.  Chilton's  on  Thursday." 

"  Mrs.  Chilton  ?  She  writes  that  gush  in  the  Trumpet,  doesn't 
she  f 

Baretta  looked  at  Yates  in  astonishment.  This  was  worse  than 
not  knowing  who  Canning's  knife-grinder  was.  "  Do  you  mean 
to  say,  Yates,  that  you  have  never  read  Mrs.  Chilton's  stories — 
or  her  poems  ?" 

"  Dreadful,  isn't  it  ?"  said  Yates,  smiling.  "  But  there's  so 
much  that  I  haven't  read.  Look  out !  there's  an  electric  coming. 
I  hate  those  cursed  things ;  I  know  I  shall  be  run  over  by  one  of 
them  some  day." 

Yates's  rooms  were  in  Livingstone  Place.  To  reach  them  one 
entered  a  narrow  hallway  and  climbed  three  flights  of  steep 
stairs.  "  I  think  it's  rather  pleasant  when  you  get  here,"  Yates 
said,  as  he  threw  open  the  door  and  waited  for  his  companion  to 
enter. 

"  Very  pleasant  indeed,"  assented  Baretta,  looking  about  him. 
It  was  a  large  square  apartment  into  which  he  was  ushered,  with 
two  windows  looking  upon  the  Place,  and  two  upon  Tremont 
Street.  The  furnishings  were  comfortable  rather  than  luxurious. 
A  big  desk,  strewn  with  books  and  papers,  occupied  the  centre 
of  the  room.  There  were  well-filled  bookcases  all  around  the 
walls ;  photographs,  framed  and  unf ramed ;  a  few  busts,  one  or 
two  good  paintings,  an  ebony  cabinet  in  one  corner  with  a  dis- 
play of  china ;  crossed  foils  and  gloves  above  the  mantel,  and 
near  the  fireplace  a  morris-chair,  drawn  close  to  a  small  table 
with  a  lamp  upon  it.  There  was  a  doorway  curtained  with  a 
Turcoman  portiere  which  led  to  the  bedroom  beyond.  Baretta, 
with  a  feeling  of  bitterness,  which  showed  itself  in  the  corners 
of  his  mouth,  thought  of  his  own  stuffy  little  chamber  in  a 
squalid  part  of  the  city,  and  wondered  what  Yates  would  say  if 
he  should  invite  him  to  visit  it. 

"  No,  Mrs.  Chilton's  fame  has  only  reached  me  through  the 
Trumpet"  said  Yates.  "  But  if  she  is  a  friend  of  yours  I  shall 
have  to  make  her  further  acquaintance — in  print.  Sit  down, 

6 


Baretta,  and  make  yourself  comfortable.  You'll  find  some  cig- 
arettes on  the  desk."  lie  went  to  the  cabinet  and  paused  with 
his  hand  on  the  door.  "  Will  you  have  maraschino  or  cura§oa  ?" 

"  Neither — I  don't  drink." 

"  Nor  smoke  ?" 

"  No ;  I  can't  afford  to  do  either."  Baretta  spoke  aggressively, 
as  if  he  expected  to  be  disputed.  But  Yates  merely  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  came  away  from  the  cabinet  without  opening  it. 

"  What  a  lot  of  books  you  have,"  said  Baretta,  after  a  moment 
of  silence,  seeing  that  the  other  intended  to  make  no  reply  to  his 
last  observation.  "  I  envy  you  those." 

"  I  don't  know  how  they  have  accumulated  so  rapidly.  A 
good  many  of  them  are  not  of  much  account.  That  set  of  Brit- 
ish Poets  is  rather  a  good  one,  and  there's  a  second  edition  of 
Dodsley  in  half  calf  that  I  picked  up  at  a  bargain.  Are  you  in- 
terested in  old  plays  ?  Here  is  a  remarkably  fine  set  of  Bell's 
Theatre  that  I  had  bound  up  with  some  extra  plates." 

Baretta  looked  vaguely  at  the  backs  of  the  volumes  indicated 
and  shook  his  head.  u  My  reading  hasn't  been  much  in  that 
line — although,  of  course,  I've  dipped  into  them  ;  oh  yes,  I've 
dipped  into  them.  But  I've  had  too  much  else  to  do  and  to 
think  of.  I  must  make  all  my  reading  serve  one  purpose." 

"  Ah,  it's  a  great  thing  to  be  so  terribly  in  earnest.  How  is 
it  you've  found  time  for  Mrs.  Chilton's  poetry  ?" 

"  Well,  don't  you  know,"  replied  Baretta,  in  an  embarrassed 
sort  of  fashion,  "  I  hunted  it  up  and  read  it  after  I  had  met  her." 

Yates  laughed.  "  I  see  you're  guilty  of  these  little  bits  or 
social  finesse  like  the  rest  of  us.  And  so  you  are  going  to  roar 
for  her  on  Thursday." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 

"  Don't  take  offence — it's  a  compliment,  I  assure  you.  Mrs. 
Chilton  is  fond  of  lions — I  know  that  much  about  her — -and  you 
are  to  be  the  latest  exhibition." 

"  If  I  thought  she  asked  me  merely  to  be  stared  at  by  a  gap- 
ing crowd — " 

"  Oh,  you  misunderstand  me.  It's  an  honour.  Boston  so- 
ciety— all  but  the  very  best — is  chiefly  devoted  to  the  pleasures 
of  the  chase,  and  noble  game  is  essential." 

1 


"  Well,"  said  Baretta,  rather  irritably,  "  I  confess  that  I  don't 
understand  you.  It's  absurd  to  suppose  that  Mrs.  Chilton  invited 
me  because  she  fancied  I  had  any  pretensions  to  eminence." 

"  Far  be  from  me,  Baretta,  to  destroy  your  guileless  confidence, 
but  I  should  like  some  time  to  give  you  a  little  lecture  upon 
Boston  and  the  Bostonians,  and  how  to  succeed  among  them." 

"  Success  of  the  sort  you  mean  is  what  I  do  not  want."  The 
young  man  took  a  few  turns  up  and  down  the  room,  his  brows 
meeting  in  a  thoughtful  frown,  and  a  strange  light  flashing  from 
his  eyes.  "  You  would  laugh  at  me  if  I  should  confide  to  you 
my  real  ambition.  You  would  call  me  a  dreamer  and  an  enthu- 
siast— no,  you  would  call  me  a  fool.  But  I  should  like  to  have 
you  think  that  I  am  sincere." 

"  My  dear  fellow  !"  cried  Yates,  in  a  tone  of  remonstrance. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  heard  of  Matthew  Arnold,"  Baretta  went 
on,  still  walking  up  and  down.  "  I  don't  mean  to  be  sarcastic  ; 
I  dare  say  you  have  read  his  books,  which  is  more  than  I  have 
done.  But  I  once  came  across  a  poem  of  his — I've  forgotten 
what  it  was  all  about  now — only  two  lines  seemed  to  burn  them- 
selves into  my  memory — they  seemed  to  tell  me  all  at  once  what 
my  life  work  was  to  be.  They  must  be  familiar  to  you  : 

.         "  '  The  complaining  millions  of  men 
Darken  in  labour  and  pain.1 

That's  all — but  what  a  picture  of  human  life  it  gives !  Well, 
Yates,  it's  to  the  complaining  millions  that  I  have  dedicated  my 
poor  powers.  When  I  come  to  die  I  want  to  feel  that  I  have 
done  my  best  to  wipe  out  that  monstrous  injustice  which  men 
call  law,  or  government,  or  society — it's  just  as  bad  by  any 
name." 

"  I  see,  I  see,"  murmured  Yates,  as  Baretta  paused  and  looked 
at  him.  "  But  I  think  you  are  going  to  work  the  wrong  way." 

"  The  right  way  is  not  palter  and  compromise,  at  all  events," 
declared  the  other,  vehemently.  "  That  has  been  tried  a  good 
many  years,  and  it  has  never  led  to  anything  but  failure." 

"  Ah,  yes ;  but  can  the  labour  and  pain  be  abolished  even  if 
you  tear  down  the  whole  social  structure  ?  That's  the  point." 

"  One  can  do  no  more  than  try." 

8 


"And  when  you  are  sitting  in  the  ruins,  how  do  you  propose 
to  rebuild  ?" 

"  Oh,  one  needn't  cross  a  bridge  before  one  comes  to  it." 

"  You  are  like  all  the  rest,"  said  Yates.  "  It  is  impossible  to 
pin  you  down  to  anything  definite.  You  ask  us  to  close  our 
eyes  and  swallow  the  medicine  you  give  us  without  a  grimace. 
But  come,  you  haven't  told  me  about  Mrs.  Chilton  yet." 

Baretta  threw  himself  into  a  chair  with  an  air  of  relaxation 
which  was  in  striking  contrast  to  his  former  mood  of  pas- 
sionate intensity.  "  You  bring  me  down  to  the  solid  ground 
again  with  a  vengeance,"  he  said.  "  As  to  Mrs.  Chilton,  there's 
really  nothing  to  tell  except  that  I  have  met  her  two  or  three 
times  at  the  house  of  some  people  who  have  been  very  kind  to 
me,  the  Lawrences — ' 

"The  Lawrences!"  cried  Yates. 

"Oh,  do  you  know  them?  I  never  heard  them  speak  of 
you.  Well,  and  so  when  Mrs.  Chilton  met  me  on  the  street 
this  afternoon  she  asked  me  to  come  on  Thursday." 

"  No — it  is  probably  some  one  else  that  I  am  thinking  of," 
Yates  said,  in  a  curiously  constrained  manner,  ignoring  the  ex- 
planation about  Mrs.  Chilton  for  which  he  himself  had  asked. 
"  The  name  has  unpleasant  associations  for  me,  that  is  all. 
And  Mrs.  Chilton — she  is  as  charming  as  her  poetry,  I  dare  say." 

"  I  thought  you  had  not  read  her  poetry,"  said  Baretta,  star- 
ing at  him. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  answered  Yates,  gayly,  "  I  take  your  word 
for  it.  And  I  am  really  beginning  to  envy  you  your  opportu- 
nities." 

A  peculiar  smile  appeared  on  Baretta's  face.  "  What  would 
you  say,  I  wonder,  if  you  could  see  Miss  Mildred  Lawrence  ?" 

The  book  which  Yates  had  taken  up  fell  to  the  desk  with  a 
bang. 

"  You  do  know  them  ?"  cried  Baretta,  rising  from  his  chair. 

"  How  careless  of  me !"  said  Yates,  with  an  air  of  vexation. 
He  looked  up,  and  the  eyes  of  the  young  men  met.  "  Oh,  I  beg 
your  pardon,"  he  added ;  "  I  was  thinking  of  something  else. 
No,  Miss  Mildred  Lawrence — is  that  the  name  ? — is  an  entire 
stranger  to  me." 


CHAPTER  II 
ARRAGON  STREET 

BARETTA  felt  certain  that  Yates  must  at  some  time  have 
known  Mildred  Lawrence,  in  spite  of  his  .denial ;  and  when  he 
came  away  from  his  friend's  rooms  he  was  still  wondering  what 
the  connection  between  them  might  have  been.  That  it  was  a 
disagreeable  recollection  there  could  be  no  manner  of  doubt. 
Miss  Lawrence  herself  must  have  had  some  motive  for  reticence, 
because  he  was  sure  that  he  had  more  than  once  mentioned 
Yates's  name  in  her  presence,  and  she  had  certainly  given  no  in- 
dication of  recognizing  it.  Baretta  vaguely  determined  that  if 
there  were  any  mystery  here  he  would  get  to  the  bottom  of  it. 
He  was  rather  fond  of  mysteries ;  he  made  his  own  career  one, 
although  the  main  facts  of  it  were  tolerably  simple. 

It  was  when  he  was  about  twelve  years  old  that  he  had  taken 
his  resolution  to  cut  loose  from  the  disagreeable  associations 
among  which  he  had  been  brought  up.  With  a  keenness  of 
perception  beyond  his  years  he  had  realized  the  fact  that  a 
drunken  father  was  an  incumbrance,  and  that  he  must  get  on  in 
the  world  by  his  own  efforts.  At  this  time  the  elder  Baretta 
was  enjoying  a  sober  interval,  and  was  working  at  his  trade  in 
Portsmouth.  He  was  not  a  bad  parent,  according  to  his  lights ; 
he  always  treated  the  boy  kindly,  and  when  he  had  any  money 
bestowed  dimes  and  nickels  upon  him  with  great  generosity. 
Francis  hoarded  these  gifts,  and  managed  to  add  to  the  sum  by 
carrying  parcels  for  a  chemist  in  the  place  and  by  holding  the 
horses  of  men  who  resorted  to  the  hotel  for  a  cocktail  or  a 
whiskey-and-soda.  When  he  had  accumulated  five  dollars. he 
bought  a  ticket  for  Boston,  and  thus  disappeared  from  the  New 

10 


Hampshire  town  forever.  It  was  a  hazardous  undertaking,  but 
the  boy's  confidence  in  himself  was  justified  by  events.  On  the 
very  morning  of  his  arrival  he  was  attracted  by  a  placard  in  the 
window  of  a  clothing-shop,  which  announced  that  extra  sales- 
men were  wanted.  He  entered  and  applied  for  a  position. 
The  man  to  whom  he  was  directed  looked  at  him  and  laughed. 

"  I  guess  you're  hardly  big  enough,  sonny,"  he  said. 

Francis  drew  himself  up  with  an  air  of  importance.  "  I  may 
not  be  very  big,"  he  observed,  "  but  I  know  a  thing  or  two." 

The  man  laughed  again,  more  loudly  than  before.  "  You've 
got  cheek,  at  any  rate.  Where  do  you  come  from  ?" 

"  From  Springfield,"  answered  the  boy.  "  My  father's  dead, 
and  the  folks  I  was  with  didn't  treat  me  right,  and  so  I  ran 
away." 

This  falsehood  ran  so  glibly  from  his  tongue  that  the  head 
clerk  accepted  it  as  truth.  "  How  old  are  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Sixteen,"  said  Francis. 

"  You're  pretty  small  for  your  age." 

"  Well,  perhaps  I'll  grow." 

"  Have  you  any  references  ?" 

The  demand  puzzled  him  for  a  moment.  This  was  a  contin- 
gency for  which  he  had  not  provided.  But  he  quickly  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  if  he  got  on  at  all  it  must  be  by  sheer  au- 
dacity and  nothing  else.  "  I  can  write  to  Springfield,"  he  said, 
confidently,  "  but  I  don't  want  to.  They  might  make  me  go 
back." 

"  Have  they  any  legal  claim  upon  you  ?"  asked  the  clerk. 

"I — I  don't  know  exactly  what  you  mean.  They  ain't  no 
relations." 

The  man  looked  at  him  a  moment  with  a  contemplative  air. 
"  It's  against  the  rules  to  hire  a  boy  without  references,"  he  said 
at  last ;  "  but  I  like  you,  young  feller,  and  as  one  of  our  boys 
has  been  taken  sick,  I  am  going  to  give  you  his  place  until  he 
comes  back.  Be  here  to  -  morrow  morning  at  eight  o'clock 
sharp." 

In  this  extraordinary  fashion  Francis  began  his  career  of  in- 
dependence. After  having  got  his  start  by  misrepresentations, 
he  resolved  to  be  faithful  to  his  employers,  and  he  kept  his  reso- 

11 


lution.  His  early  experiences  had  not  been  calculated  to  devel- 
op in  him  the  finer  virtues  ;  but  he  had  no  innate  love  of  evil, 
and  so  long  as  it  was  not  necessary  to  his  advancement  he  could 
be  scrupulously  honest.  He  never  acquired  any  of  those  vices 
which  most  boys  thrown  upon  the  world  at  his  age  acquire,  lie 
did  not  swear,  or  use  vile  language,  or  smoke  cigarettes,  or 
gamble.  He  was  prompt  and  energetic  and  courteous,  although 
his  flashing  eyes  betrayed  a  hot  temper,  and  he  resented  rough 
pranks  with  a  virulence  of  passion  which  rather  frightened 
those  who  played  them.  In  fact,  he  mingled  little  with  boys  of 
his  class.  He  disliked  them  because  he  felt  himself  to  be  their 
superior,  and  they  disliked  him  because  they  recognized  and 
resented  this  assumption  of  superiority.  Consequently  he  made 
no  friends,  and  was  thrown  entirely  upon  his  own  resources ; 
which,  perhaps,  was  just  as  well.  His  lonely  life  enabled  him 
to  become  acquainted  with  books  and  to  save  money.  lie  re- 
mained at  the  clothing  -  shop  two  years.  Then  he  went  to  a 
huge  dry-goods  establishment,  beginning  with  the  humble  oc- 
cupation of  tying  up  parcels.  In  two  years  more — when  he  was 
in  fact  sixteen,  the  age  which  he  had  assumed  at  the  outset  of 
his  business  career  —  he  was  promoted  to  a  place  behind  the 
counter.  He  might  fairly  by  this  time  be  called  a  young  man, 
so  few  boyish  traits  were  left  to  him.  His  popularity  among 
his  fellows  had  not  increased  meanwhile.  He  held  himself 
aloof  from  them,  and  instead  of  going  to  the  theatre  or  lounging 
about  bar-rooms  spent  his  evenings  in  the  public  library.  Thus 
several  years  more  passed  in  an  uneventful  fashion.  When  he 
was  twenty  he  fell  in  with  the  man  whose  influence  chiefly 
helped  to  determine  his  future  career. 

Baretta  had  told  Yates  that  the  inspiration  for  the  work  he 
was  now  doing  came  from  two  lines  of  Matthew  Arnold's  which 
he  had  quoted.  This  was,  perhaps,  in  some  measure  true  ;  they 
may  have  stimulated  in  him  an  imminent  desire  to  identify  him- 
self with  the  complaining  millions.  He  felt  that  he,  too,  had 
some  cause  for  complaint.  Was  he  not  gifted  with  powers  be- 
yond his  fellows  and  at  the  same  time  denied  the  opportunity 
of  developing  them?  What  could  be  more  tragic  than  to  be 
conscious  of  one's  capacity  for  a  great  career  and  to  spend  one's 

12 


days  in  selling  ribbons  and  laces  ?  These  things  were  in  his 
mind  before  the  time  came  for  his  release  from  the  establish- 
ment of  Jackson  &  Moore.  But  they  would  never  have  taken 
any  definite  shape  had  it  not  been  for  the  Rev.  Henry  Dit- 
ton.  Of  him  something  will  be  said  hereafter.  He  may  be 
introduced  briefly  here  as  one  who  had  been  a  minister  in  tho 
Methodist  Church,  but  whose  interest  in  charitable  work  haJ 
first  diverted  him  from  his  religious  obligations  and  then  had  led 
him  to  renounce  them  altogether.  He  did  a  great  deal  of  good 
by  helping  to  alleviate  the  distresses  of  the  people  among  whom 
he  worked  and  a  great  deal  of  harm  by  preaching  Socialism  to 
them.  It  was  while  he  was  holding  forth  to  an  audience  on  the 
Common  one  Sunday  morning  that  Baretta,  who  was  sauntering 
by,  stopped  to  listen.  Something  in  the  tirade  against  wealth 
and  luxury  fell  in  with  the  young  man's  mood.  He  was  con- 
scious of  the  stirrings  of  ambition,  and  he  saw  no  way  to  give 
them  scope.  He  had  read  and  studied  just  enough  to  make 
him  discontented  with  his  daily  labour,  but  too  little  to  fit  him 
for  any  higher  occupation.  Like  others  in  the  same  situation, 
he  blamed  circumstances  rather  than  himself.  He  thought  that 
he  was  not  having  a  fair  chance  in  the  world ;  and,  this  being 
the  case,  the  world  itself  was  necessarily  all  wrong.  When  he 
said  that  he  must  get  on,  there  was  no  cynic  by  to  express  a 
doubt  as  to  the  necessity.  The  quality  of  egoism  was  very 
strongly  developed  in  this  young  man.  It  had  early  found  ex- 
pression in  his  separation  of  himself  from  his  father,  and  it  had 
directed  all  his  subsequent  career.  His  love  of  knowledge  arose 
primarily  from  his  recognition  of  the  truth  of  the  old  maxim 
that  knowledge  is  power.  Ditton's  preaching  suggested  to  him 
the  way  in  which  he  might  use  this  power  to  the  best  advan- 
tage. The  majority  of  men  are  willing  to  adhere  blindly  to 
the  established  order  of  things.  But  the  man  who  boldly  an- 
tagonizes it  may  make  himself  respected  and  even  feared. 
Baretta  listened  to  -these  Socialistic  harangues  week  after  week, 
each  time  with  a  fuller  appreciation  of  their  potency.  He  lin- 
gered in  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  and  sometimes  took  part  in 
the  discussions  that  went  on  there.  His  constancy  attracted 
Ditton's  attention,  and  one  day  Ditton  followed  him  as  the  audi- 

13 


ence  was  dispersing,  and  spoke  to  him.  Never  had  a  teacher 
found  a  more  apt  pupil.  Baretta's  was  one  of  those  intellects 
which  are  as  facile  as  they  are  superficial.  He  quickly  became 
familiar  with  all  the  jargon  of  Socialism ;  it  appealed  strongly 
to  his  feeling  of  personal  injustice.  Ditton  was  shrewd  enough 
to  play  upon  this  string  until  he  had  bound  the  young  man  irrev- 
ocably to  his  cause. 

Reminiscences  of  those  days  were  floating  through  Baretta's 
mind  as  he  walked  across  the  Common  on  this  warm  April  after- 
noon. He  was  now  twenty-four  years  old,  and  his  association 
with  the  Socialist  preacher  was  no  longer  a  novelty.  He  con- 
sidered that  his  assistance  had  been  of  the  greatest  value  to 
Ditton,  and  that  the  burden  of  gratitude  did  not  rest  upon  his 
shoulders.  He  had  given  up  his  situation  with  Jackson  & 
Moore  to  devote  himself  to  the  work,  depending  for  his  support 
upon  the  contributions  which  were  collected  from  the  enemies 
of  society.  This  work  was  partly  propagandist  and  partly  chari- 
table. Ditton's  idea  was  to  relieve  as  much  human  misery  as 
he  could,  and  then  to  insist  that  this  misery  would  not  exist 
were  it  not  for  the  laws  enacted  by  the  rich  to  grind  the  faces 
of  the  poor.  Such  an  argument  struck  Baretta  as  unanswerable. 
Perhaps  his  zeal  was  stimulated  by  the  fact  that  there  was  more 
excitement  in  this  hand-to-mouth  agitation  than  in  standing  be- 
hind a  counter  and  earning  a  weekly  salary.  It  was  gratifying, 
at  all  events,  to  feel  that  one  was  becoming  a  power  in  the  world. 
Even  the  depressing  surroundings  of  a  stuffy  little  room  in 
Arragon  Street  could  not  obscure  this  important  feature  of  the 
situation. 

Arragon  Street  lies  between  two  widely-known  thoroughfares, 
although  it  is  itself  practically  unknown.  The  houses  which 
front  upon  it  are  low-browed  and  squalid,  for  the  most  'part 
only  three  stories  high,  with  narrow  doorways  separated  from 
the  pavement  by  only  a  single  step.  .Madrid  Street,  into  which 
Arragon  Street  empties,  is  much  more  pretentious.  It  boasts 
no  less  than  three  apartment-houses — the  St.  Glair,  the  Beau- 
mont, and  the  Plantagenet,  the  names  being  inscribed  in  gilt 
letters  on  the  glass  over  the  door.  Here  there  are  lace  curtains 
in  the  windows,  and  sometimes  a  Rogers  group  or  a  large  family 

u 


Bible*  resting  upon  a  marble-top  stand.  And  although  the  men 
in  Madrid  Street  do  not  seem  to  differ  materially  from  their 
neighbours  in  Arragon  Street,  but  sit  without  their  coats  in  the 
full  view  of  the  public,  the  women,  on  the  other  hand,  devote 
a  great  deal  of  attention  to  their  personal  appearance,  and  are 
often  to  be  seen  issuing  forth  in  very  gorgeous  raiment  indeed. 
It  is  frequently  intimated  in  Arragon  Street  that  this  finery  is 
not  always  honestly  come  by,  but  with  that  cruel  slander  we 
need  not  concern  ourselves.  No  doubt  some  of  those  who  utter 
it  are  no  better  than  they  should  be.  Baretta  could  have  told 
many  queer  stories  of  the  people  among  whom  he  passed  his 
days  if  he  had  chosen.  His  faculty  of  observation  was  very 
keen,  and  he  saw  much  that  others  might  not  have  seen.  He 
had  chosen  his  lodgings,  in  the  first  place,  because  they  seemed 
to  promise  unusual  opportunities  for  understanding  this  vast 
problem,  to  the  solution  of  which  he  had  devoted  himself.  The 
dirt  and  squalor  were  not  agreeable  to  him.  His  income  was 
both  narrow  and  uncertain,  but  it  would  have  afforded  to  him 
better  quarters  if  he  had  chosen.  Perhaps  he  had  something 
of  the  conscious  pride  of  martyrdom  in  remaining  where  he 
was.  Now,  however,  he  was  thinking  with  resentment  of  the 
inequalities  of  human  existence.  There  was  Yates,  for  example 
— why  should  everything  be  made  so  smooth  for  him  ?  He 
failed  to  reflect,  as  most  of  us  do  on  similar  occasions,  that  no 
man  knows  where  another's  shoe  pinches. 

The  sun  was  sinking  below  the  roofs  of  the  city  when  Baretta 
turned  into  Arragon  Street,  and  the  warmth  of  the  early  after- 
noon was  yielding  to  the  chill  which  the  air  of  spring  always 
holds  in  reserve.  The  place  looked  unusually  squalid  to  his 
discontented  eye.  It  was  near  the  hour  of  supper,  and  various 
children  who  had  been  despatched  to  the  bake-shop  for  a  loaf  of 
bread  or  a  pint  of  milk  were  lingering  on  the  reeking  pavements 
to  swear  at  one  another,  taunts  in  many  cases  leading  to  shrieks 
and  blows.  Two  or  three  dishevelled  women,  with  dirty  shawls 
thrown  over  their  heads,  were  hurrying  home  with  pitchers  and 
cans.  These  had  been,  in  the  parlance  of  the  neighbourhood, 
"  working  the  growler ;"  in  other  words,  they  were  returning 
from  a  near-by  saloon  with  beer.  These  sights  and  sounds 

]5 


struck  Baretta  with  an  unusual  sense  of  loathing.  As  he  entered 
the  doorway  of  one  of  the  dingy  houses  something  like  a  shud- 
der convulsed  him  for  a  moment. 

The  odour  of  frying  onions  greeted  him  as  he  ascended  to 
his  room.  Peter  Dolan,  his  landlord,  was  very  fond  of  onions ; 
they  went  well,  as  he  said,  with  tripe  or  liver,  or  with  a  piece  of 
round-steak,  cut  thin  and  done  brown.  Dolan  had  little  to  say 
to  his  tenant.  He  did  not  like  his  foreign  looks,  as  he  told 
Mrs.  Dolan.  When  he  was  drunk,  which  happened  about  twice 
a  week,  he  expressed  this  dislike  with  oaths  and  curses.  These 
were  not  addressed  directly  to  Baretta,  of  whom  Dolan  was  a 
little  afraid.  lie  knew  that  he  could  knock  the  young  man 
down  with  a  single  blow  of  his  ponderous  fist.  But  the  trouble 
with  these  foreigners  was  that  they  would  not  fight  fair.  Dolan 
respected  the  knife  which  his  imagination  had  concealed  some- 
where about  Baretta's  person.  He  told  his  wife  that  "  dagoes  " 
always  carried  knives,  and  that  this  lodger  of  theirs  was  un- 
doubtedly a  "  dago."  This  legend  had  one  result  which  added 
considerably  to  Baretta's  comfort.  It  kept  the  younger  members 
of  the  Dolan  family  at  a  distance.  Only  at  rare  and  furtive  in- 
tervals did  they  dare  to  rummage  his  room,  and  if  they  took  any- 
thing of  his  with  a  view  to  converting  it  to  their  own  use,  the 
image  of  that  sanguinary  knife  soon  became  vivid  enough  to 
induce  them  to  return  it.  Poor  Mrs.  Dolan,  to  do  her  justice, 
was  an  honest  and  kindly  woman,  who  tried  to  bring  up  her 
family  as  decently  as  her  own  limited  ideas  and  the  conditions 
of  life  in  Arragon  Street  would  permit.  But  the  legend  of  the 
knife  was  no  doubt  more  effectual  than  the  maternal  discipline. 

"  It's  tripe  to-night !"  shouted  one  of  the  children  from  the 
creaking  stairway  to  the  third  story  as  Baretta  paused  on  the 
second  and  fumbled  in  the  darkness  for  the  key-hole  to  the 
door  of  his  room.  He  locked  up  his  belongings  when  he  was  to 
be  away  for  any  length  of  time.  "  You  ain't  drunk,  are  you  ?" 
continued  the  voice. 

"No — what  do  you  mean  by  that?"  retorted  Baretta.  He 
threw  open  the  door  and  a  ray  of  light  penetrated  the  gloom  of 
the  passage.  "  Which  young  one  are  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  Alice.  I  thought  you  might  be  drunk,  because  dad 

10 


was  drunk  last  night.  My  !"  The  girl  screamed  with  mingled 
fear  and  delight  at  the  recollection. 

"  You  shouldn't  talk  like  that,  Alice." 

"  I  guess  I'll  talk  anyway  I  please."  The  legendary  knife 
had  not  exercised  any  appreciable  influence  upon  the  manners  or 
conversation  of  the  young  Dolans. 

"  No,  you  won't,  miss — not  to  Mr.  Baretta,"  said  another  voice. 
It  was  that  of  a  young  woman  who  had  come  unobserved  from 
the  other  end  of  the  dim  passageway.  "  I'm  ashamed  of  you." 
She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  added,  impulsively,  "  Oh,  Mr. 
Baretta,  what  must  you  think  of  us  all  ?" 

The  young  man  stood  in  the  doorway,  looking  at  her  with  ad- 
miring eyes.  She  was  a  pretty  girl — in  the  way  that  so  many 
girls  are  pretty  —  and  as  their  glances  met,  she  smiled  brill- 
iantly. She  had  black  hair  and  eyes,  a  fresh  complexion  and 
a  rather  luxurious  figure.  Probably  by  the  time  she  was 
forty  she  would  be  red-faced  and  fat;  but  at  twenty  the  impres- 
sion which  she  made  upon  the  masculine  eye  was  distinctly 
agreeable. 

"  You  know  what  I  think  of  you,"  said  Baretta,  smiling  back 
at  her. 

"  Oh,  come  now  !"     She  tossed  her  head  defiantly. 

"  Say,  Maud !"  called  the  small  girl  on  the  stairway.  "  Is  he 
your  beau  !" 

"  Alice !" 

"  Because,"  continued  the  shrill  marplot,  relentlessly,  "  I  heard 
pa  tell  ma  last  night  that  if  he  wasn't  he'd  better  stop  making 
up  to  you.  P'raps  'twas  only  because  he  was  drunk." 

The  young  woman's  face  flushed  crimson  with  mortification. 
"  Alice  !"  she  gasped  again,  helplessly. 

Baretta,  who  was  still  standing  by  the  open  door,  took  up  the 
conversation  at  this  point.  "  Alice,"  he  said,  severely,  "  if  you 
plague  your  sister  like  this  do  you  know  what  will  happen  to 
you  ?"  He  frowned  at  the  offender,  who  almost  instantly  van- 
ished into  the  obscurity  of  the  floor  above.  His  countenance 
was  rather  lowering  at  all  times,  and  it  was  not  surprising  that 
this  simulated  anger  should  be  terrifying.  "  Miss  Maud,"  he 
added,  after  a  moment  of  hesitation,  with  an  impulsiveness  that 
B  17 


betrayed  his  foreign  blood,  "  I  wish — I  wish  very  much  that  I 
could  help  you." 

"  Me  !"  cried  the  girl,  bitterly.  "  Oh,  I  ain't  worth  the  trou- 
ble." 

"You  shouldn't  mind  what  they  say.  As  Alice  remarked, 
your  father  was — that  is,  he  didn't  mean  it."  His  dark  eyes 
swept  her  face  for  a  moment.  "  I  don't  see  why  we  shouldn't 
be  friends." 

"  Friends  !     You  can  go  among  the  swells  for  them." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  that,"  said  Baretta,  coldly. 
"Of  course,  if  you  wish  me  to  mind  my  own  business  and  leave 
you  to  yourself — " 

He  stepped  inside  the  threshold,  but  she  followed  him  and 
put  one  hand  on  his  shoulder  beseechingly.  "  Don't  be  angry 
with  me,  Frank.  There,  I  ought  not  to  have  called  you  that, 
but  it  slipped  out,  somehow."  She  looked  about  the  room  with 
the  air  of  one  who  is  venturing  upon  unknown  territory.  "  I 
suppose  it  ain't  proper  for  me  to  be  here,  but  I  don't  care.  Why 
should  I  set  up  to  be  any  better  than  the  rest  ?" 

"  Maud  !"  cried  Baretta,  turning  suddenly,  and  grasping  both 
her  hands  in  his,  "  it  hurts  me  to  hear  you  talk  like  that.  I 
know  how  hard  everything  is  for  you.  But — but  it  can't  last 
forever.  You  wrong  me  when  you  talk  about  my  going  among 
the  swells.  What  do  they  care  for  me,  or  I  for  them  ?  I  only 
follow  my  work  where  it  leads  me.  But  you — I  want  you  for  a 
real  friend." 

The  only  reply  which  the  girl  made  to  this  appeal  was  to  burst 
into  tears.  Then,  without  a  word,  she  turned  and  fairly  ran 
from  the  room. 

Baretta  gazed  after  her,  hardly  knowing  whether  to  be  grati- 
fied or  piqued.  He  was  sincerely  sorry  for  her,  and  lie  was  anx- 
ious to  help  her,  as  he  said.  How  far  her  youth  and  good  looks 
influenced  him  in  this  wish  we  need  not  too  curiously  inquire. 
To  do  him  justice,  it  must  be  said  that  he  had  never  consciously 
made  love  to  her,  although  he  admitted  to  himself  that  he  was 
fond  of  her.  He  had  lived  in  Arragon  Street  for  three  years, 
and  had  watched  her  as  she  developed  into  womanhood  with  a 
good  deal  of  interest.  The  other  members  of  the  Dolan  family 

18 


were  not  attractive.  Maud  was  the  oldest.  Then  came  two 
boys,  Peter  and  Patrick,  sixteen  and  eighteen  years  old,  three 
girls,  another  boy,  and  the  youngest  girl,  Alice,  who  was  nine. 
It  was  a  large  family,  and  Mrs.  Dolan  had  a  hard  task  of  it  in 
trying  to  bring  the  children  up  respectably.  The  example  of 
the  husband  and  father  was  certainly  not  elevating.  Dolan  was 
a  mechanic,  and  a  fairly  good  workman  when  he  was  sober.  But 
his  fondness  for  bad  whiskey  led  to  periods  of  enforced  idleness, 
when  the  household  finances  ran  very  low  indeed,  and  the  out- 
look became  particularly  gloomy.  Things  were  somewhat  better 
now  that  four  of  the  children  were  earning  something.  They 
had  been  able  to  stay  in  Arragon  Street,  although  threats  of  evic- 
tion had  been  uttered  from  time  to  time  by  an  indignant  agent. 
Baretta  paid  two  dollars  a  week  for  his  room,  however — he  was 
always  careful  to  give  the  money  to  Mrs.  Dolan — and  this  was  a 
great  help.  It  was  a  high  rent  for  that  quarter  of  the  city,  but 
the  young  man  paid  it  willingly.  Were  not  these  people  among 
the  complaining  millions  whose  lot  he  had  sworn  to  ameliorate  ? 
There  were  times  when  he  felt  that  he  must  go — that  the  con- 
ditions of  existence  in  Arragon  Street  were  wellnigh  intolerable. 
But  he  made  the  resolution  only  to  break  it.  Possibly  his  in- 
terest in  Maud  was  a  controlling  influence. 

"  Poor  girl !"  he  sighed,  closing  the  door  gently  after  her 
abrupt  departure.  He  was  thinking  of  the  question — "  Why 
should  I  set  up  to  be  better  than  the  rest  ?"  The  problem  of 
"  the  rest  "  had  often  haunted  him.  He  was  not  sure  what  place 
these  wretched  creatures  would  have  in  his  scheme  of  a  regen- 
erated society.  He  regarded  them  with  a  profound  pity.  He 
could  understand  why  vice — which  at  first  is  seldom  a  creature 
of  dreadful  mien — should  attract  them.  During  these  three 
years  he  had  known  of  more  than  one  girl  who  had  got  tired  of 
being  better  than  "  the  rest "  and  had  gone  to  the  bad.  Their 
homes  were  like  Maud's,  or  even  worse.  To  them  recreation 
meant  escaping  from  these  squalid  dens  to  wander  up  and  down 
the  brilliantly-lighted  streets  which  lay  within  easy  reach.  After 
that  the  first  false  step  was  so  perilously  inviting.  He  said  to  him- 
self that  Maud  should  not  take  it,  so  long  as  he  was  by  to  prevent. 
She  was  really  a  very  good  sort  of  a  girl.  She  had  been  to  the  pub- 

19 


lie  schools,  and  had  added  to  her  native  intelligence  aspirations 
distinctly  beyond  the  life  she  was  now  leading.  He  did  not 
feel  sure  that  these  aspirations  were  intellectual ;  he  had  observed 
that  her  reading  was  mostly  confined  to  novels  ty  "  The  Duch- 
ess "  and  Bertha  M.  Clay,  and  although  his  own  knowledge  of 
literature  was  limited,  he  knew  that  these  were  trash.  This, 
however,  was  a  weakness  that  could  be  remedied.  Possibly  he 
had  thought  of  himself  as  her  future  guide,  philosopher,  and 
friend.  If  this  were  the  case  he  had  not  looked  forward  to  the 
more  prosaic  question  as  to  how  he  could  become  all  these  un- 
less he  married  her.  And,  at  all  events,  it  was  not  on  his  con- 
science that  he  had  ever  led  her  to  credit  him  with  such  an  in- 
tention. He  had  never  even  kissed  her,  although  at  more  than  one 
episode  in  their  intercourse  it  had  occurred  to  him  that  she  would 
not  have  resented  it  if  he  had.  "Poor  girl  !"  he  now  said  to 
himself,  thinking  of  Alice's  revelation  of  the  sentiments  expressed 
by  Mr.  Dolan.  Of  course  the  man  had  been  drunk  when  he  said 
that  Baretta  was  making  up  to  his  daughter,  but  the  words  must 
have  expressed  a  sentiment  dormant  in  his  mind  at  sober  mo- 
ments. The  young  man  felt  sure,  now  that  the  case  was  put  to 
him  thus  definitely,  that  nothing  had  been  further  from  his  in- 
tention. 

Yates  had  asked  his  caller  to  stay  and  dine  with  him,  but  Ba- 
retta had  refused  on  the  plea  of  having  too  much  to  do.  Yet 
now  that  he  was  in  his  room  he  remained  absolutely  idle  for  a 
long  time.  He  sat  in  front  of  a  flat  table  —  a  shabby  black- 
walnut  affair  that  he  had  picked  up  cheap  at  an  auction-room — 
and  gazed  moodily  at  the  scattered  papers,  many  of  them  circu- 
lars and  pamphlets,  which  strewed  its  surface.  He  even  forgot 
that  it  was  time  to  go  to  the  dingy  restaurant  in  Tremont 
Street  where  he  usually  dined  when  he  was  alone.  The  noise  of 
Dolan's  arrival  in  the  entry  below  might  have  reminded  him  of 
the  omission  if  he  had  been  disposed  to  pay  any  heed  to  it. 
Dolan  was  evidently  sober  this  evening,  but  he  was  also  in  a  very 
bad  temper.  Baretta  heard  the  noise  of  falling  objects  with  a 
half-unconscious  recognition  of  the  fact  that  the  head  of  the 
family  was  kicking  over  the  chairs  in  his  disgust  at  having  to 
wait  a  few  minutes  for  his  tripe  and  onions.  "  When  a  man 

20 


comes  way  from  South  Boston,  he's  hungry,"  was  Dolan's  com- 
ment, although  he  garnished  this  statement  with  oaths  that  it  is 
not  necessary  to  repeat.  "  Poor  girl !"  said  Baretta  once  more. 
Mrs.  Dolan  was  as  much  to  be  pitied  as  anybody,  but  she  was  a 
less  interesting  object  of  sympathy  than  her  daughter. 

Presently  Baretta  arose  and  lighted  his  lamp.  When  he  had 
done  this  he  took  up  a  book  that  was  lying  on  the  table,  and 
opening  it  at  the  title-page  looked  at  it  long  and  earnestly.  Per- 
haps what  interested  him  so  singularly  was  the  name  on  the  fly- 
leaf opposite.  This  was  written  with  a  stub  pen  in  that  scrawl- 
ing and  angular  hand  which  women  affect  nowadays.  The 
name  was  "  Mildred  Lawrence."  He  sighed  again,  but  this  time 
he  did  not  say  "  Poor  girl !"  What  he  did  was  rather  curious. 
He  raised  the  book  softly  to  his  lips,  then  closed  it  and  put  it 
back  on  the  table.  And  then,  after  another  interval  of  silent 
contemplation,  he  put  on  his  hat  and  went  away  to  his  dinner. 
Peter  Dolan  was  cursing  and  swearing  with  unusual  vigour  as 
he  closed  the  front  door  behind  him. 

21 


CHAPTER   III 
TERRA  INCOGNITA 

THERE  were  only  three  people  in  the  room  when  Baretta  en- 
tered it.  One  of  these  was  Mrs.  Chilton  herself,  who  smiled  as 
she  gave  him  her  hand  and  observed  that  it  was  really  very 
good  of  him  to  come.  She  added  that  she  was  afraid  her 
friends  were  going  to  forget  her  to-day. 

"  Perhaps  they  know  I  am  to  be  here,"  said  the  young  man 
with  a  lightness  of  manner  that  did  not  sit  easily  upon  him. 

"  Oh  no  !"  said  Mrs.  Chilton,  rather  coldly.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment's silence,  during  which  Baretta  felt  painfully  conscious  of 
having  made  a  blunder. 

"  I  did  not  mean — "  he  began. 

"  Do  you  know  Miss  Tredwell  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Chilton,  inter- 
rupting him.  She  glanced  at  a  pretty  girl  who  sat  by  the  tea- 
table  listening  with  a  bored  expression  to  the  conversation  of 
the  remaining  occupant  of  the  room.  This  was  a  man — past 
his  first  youth,  but  still  young — who  rose  as  Mrs.  Chilton  spoke, 
although  it  seemed  impossible  that  he  could  have  heard  her, 
and  came  towards  them. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  let  you  monopolize  Miss  Tredwell,"  said  Mrs. 
Chilton.  "  Besides,  I  am  sure  she  wants  to  know  Mr.  Baretta." 

The  other  man  said  something  that  sounded  like  "  Haw !" 
and  stared  at  the  new-comer  in  what  he  thought  was  an  insolent 
way.  Baretta  flushed,  and  looked  at  Mrs.  Chilton  as  if  he  were 
expecting  an  introduction.  When,  instead  of  gratifying  this 
expectation,  she  took  him  across  the  room  to  Miss  Tredwell,  he 
felt  more  uncomfortable  than  ever.  Was  the  stranger  some 

O 

one  too  important  for  him  to  know  ? 

22 


"Oh  yes,  I  have  heard  all  about  you  from  Mildred  Law- 
rence," said  Miss  Tredwell,  smiling  at  him.  Baretta  stood  by 
awkwardly  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  Mrs.  Chilton  had 
moved  away  after  presenting  him,  and  was  now  talking  with 
her  other  caller. 

"  Miss  Lawrence — she  is  very  kind,"  stammered  Baretta. 

"  Why  don't  you  say  you  admire  her  ?  They  all  do."  Miss 
Tredwell  smiled  again. 

"  Oh,  I — I  wouldn't  dare."  The  question  seemed  to  him  a 
very  bold  one  to  ask,  and  it  disconcerted  him  still  more. 

"  Really,  now  !  How  modest — there  aren't  many  young  men 
like  that."  Miss  Tredwell  poured  some  hot -water  from  the 
samovar  into  a  cup,  and  dipped  a  silver  ball  into  it  two  or  three 
times,  the  water  taking  a  deeper  discolouration  at  each  immer- 
sion. The  process  was  new  to  Baretta,  and  he  wondered  vague- 
ly what  strange  decoction  it  was  that  she  was  preparing.  "  Two 
lumps  ?"  she  asked,  suddenly,  looking  up  at  him. 

"  Oh,  why — is  it  for  me?" 

"  Don't  you  take  tea  ?     I  know  some  men  don't  care  for  it." 

"Tea?  Thank  you."  Baretta  sat  down  helplessly  in  the 
chair  nearest  this  self-possessed  young  woman  with  a  crushed 
sense  of  his  own  lack  of  self-possession.  It  was  a  new  sensa- 
tion to  him.  He  was  used  to  being  a  dominating  influence  over 
the  people  among  whom  he  went.  He  recalled,  with  something 
like  bitterness,  Maud  Dolan's  remark,  that  he  was  making 
friends  of  the  "  swells."  What  would  she  think  if  she  could 
see  him  now  ? 

"  I  think  it's  rather  nice,  because  it  gives  one  an  excuse  for 
seeing  people.  One  hates  making  calls,  but  if  one's  friends 
have  an  afternoon,  it  is  so  easy  to  run  in  for  a  cup  of  tea,  and 
say  a  word  here,  and  two  words  there,  and  run  out  again.  Peo- 
ple don't  have  half  the  chance  to  get  tired  of  you  that  they 
would  otherwise.  Don't  you  agree  with  me  ?" 

"  I  ?  Oh  yes.  I  think  so."  Baretta  was  hardly  conscious 
of  what  she  was  saying.  The  feeling  that  he  was  out  of  place, 
that  he  was  probably  making  an  ass  of  himself,  was  quite  too 
humiliating.  He  had  a  wild  desire  to  escape  ;  he  measured  the 
distance  to  the  door  as  if  he  were  calculating  whether  he  could 

23 


run  the  gantlet  of  Mrs.  Chilton  and  of  two  ladies  who  had  just 
arrived  and  reach  it  in  safety. 

"  Are  you  looking  for  Miss  Lawrence  ?"  asked  Miss  Tredwell, 
following  the  direction  of  his  eyes.  "That  isn't  very  polite, 
you  know,  when  you  have  the  privilege  of  talking  to  me."  She 
smiled  at  him  again,  and  he  noticed  how  very  blue  her  eyes 
were  and  how  brilliantly  golden — almost  red — the  hair  was, 
which,  growing  in  a  bushy  mass,  framed  the  mischievous  little 
face.  "But  I  am  getting  quite  used  to  it  —  oh  yes!  You 
needn't  apologize ;  I  shouldn't  believe  you  if  you  denied  it." 

All  this  was  bewildering  enough  to  Baretta ;  but  he  was  not 
a  dull  young  man,  and  he  began  to  see  that  Miss  TredwelPs  re- 
marks were  not  to  be  taken  too  seriously.  lie  pulled  himself 
together  with  a  resolution  to  stick  out  the  ordeal  as  best  he 
could  "  Well,  then,"  he  said,  "  I  won't  apologize." 

"  I  like  your  frankness.  I  shall  tell  Miss  Lawrence  that  you 
were  looking  for  her  all  the  afternoon,  and  that  you  were  very 
rude  to  me." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  you — "  he  began.  Bat  he  found  that  Miss  Tred- 
well had  suddenly  turned  to  speak  to  a  tall,  dark  young  man, 
good-looking,  and  (as  it  seemed  to  him)  elegantly  dressed,  who 
had  approached  unobserved. 

"  Will  you  give  me  a  cup  of  tea  for  Mrs.  Stauwood  ?"  asked 
the  young  man. 

"Mrs.  Stanwood?"  Miss  Tredwell  nodded  and  smiled  at  a 
lady  across  the  room.  "  I  didn't  see  her  come  in.  You  are  a 
very  great  stranger,  Mr.  Wyman." 

"  I  appreciate  the  compliment  implied  in  your  consciousness 
of  the  fact,"  said  Mr.  Wyman.  He  took  the  cup  which  the  girl 
held  out  to  him.  "  Will  you  let  me  come  back  by-and-by  and 
show  you  that  I  am  grateful  ?" 

Baretta  sat  by  while  this  was  going  on  with  a  feeling  that  he 
was  being  snubbed.  Who  were  these  people,  and  why  didn't 
Mrs.  Chilton  introduce  him  to  them  ?  Was  he  expected  to  sit 
in  the  corner  all  the  afternoon  with  this  chattering  young  wom- 
an— who  was  doubtless  poking  fun  at  him — perhaps  to  be  stared 
at  as  a  curiosity,  but  with  no  chance  to  make  any  impression 
upon  the  unfamiliar  world  which  he  had  been  asked  to  enter  ? 

24 


He  began  to  think  that  he  had  made  a  mistake  in  coming, 
at  all.  What  did  any  of  Mrs.  Chilton's  friends  care  about 
him  or  his  schemes  for  ameliorating  the  lot  of  humanity  ? 
They  had  never  known  the  pinch  of  want  or  the  pangs  of 
misery,  and  why  should  they  concern  themselves  with  creatures 
less  fortunate  ?  He  had  been  a  fool  to  imagine  that  Mrs.  Chil- 
ton  had  any  genuine  interest  in  him  or  his  career.  Still,  she 
had  invited  him  to  her  house,  and  she  ought  not  to  neglect  him 
entirely. 

"  May  I  trouble  you  to  take  this  to  Miss  Linley  ?"  The  ques- 
tion interrupted  these  bitter  meditations,  and  he  turned*  to  see 
Miss  Tredwell  holding  out  a  cup  towards  him.  He  rose  to 
take  it,  and  then  he  looked  at  her  hesitatingly.  "  But  I  don't 
know  who  Miss  Linley  is,"  he  said.  "  I  haven't  been  intro- 
duced to  any  one — except  you." 

"And  I  don't  count — is  that  it,  Mr.  Baretta?  Oh,  don't 
take  the  trouble  to  deny  it;  I  know  when  a  man  is  bored. 
That  is  Miss  Linley  on  the  sofa.  I  dare  say  you  and  she  will 
find  enough  to  talk  about.  She  goes  to  the  Annex." 

All  this  increased  the  young  man's  confusion.  To  go  up  to 
a  young  woman  one  didn't  know  and  plunge  into  conversation 
with  her — that  was  a  strange  thing  to  do.  But  Miss  Tredwell 
seemed  to  take  it  quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  it  was  to  be 
supposed  that  she  knew  what  was  proper.  Then  once  more  the 
determination  to  make  the  best  of  it  came  to  his  aid.  He 
reached  for  the  plate  of  biscuit  with  his  free  hand,  and  thus 
equipped  crossed  the  room. 

"  Miss  Tredwell  sent  me,"  he  said,  pausing  in  front  of  Miss 
Linley.  She  was  a  pale,  thin  girl,  rather  forbidding  of  aspect,  and 
she  regarded  him  inquiringly  through  her  eye-glasses.  "  I — I 
am  Francis  Baretta." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,"  said  Miss  Linley,  taking  the  tea  and  declin- 
ing the  biscuit.  "  Charming  weather,  isn't  it?" 

"  Yes,  very." 

"  Mrs.  Chilton  has  been  telling  me  about  you."  She  gathered 
her  skirts  about  her,  and  Baretta  interpreted  this  as  an  invitation 
to  be  seated.  "You  must  tell  me  all  about  your  work.  I  am 
greatly  interested  in  it." 

25 


*  "  Oh,"  he  said,  awkwardly,  "  I  didn't  suppose  that  Mrs.  Chil- 
ton  had  told  any  one  about  me." 

"  It's  too  bad  this  is  her  last  Thursday.  One  always  meets 
such  clever  people  here,  and  Socialism  is  something  new.  But 
you  might  give  some  lectures  next  winter.  You  could  have  our 
parlour  for  the  first  one.  Mamma  always  likes  to  have  things. 
There's  so  little  that  is  really  intellectual  going  on." 

"  I  hadn't  thought  of  anything  of  that  sort.  I  go  in  for  prac- 
tical work." 

"  You  don't  mean  bomb-throwing,  do  you  ?" 

Baretta  stared.  "  I  think  you  must  have  a  very  queer  idea 
of  what  Socialism  is,"  he  said. 

"  Then  you  must  tell  me.  Oh,  really,  I  am  very  anxious  to 
learn." 

"  I'm  afraid  that  would  take  more  time  than  you  are  likely  to 
wish  to  spare.  You  see,  it  isn't  mere  talk  alone  that's  going  to 
help  humanity.  Of  course  you've  got  to  show  them  how  bad 
the  present  system  is.  But  it's  more  important  to  construct 
than  to  destroy.  When  the  present  social  system  is  overthrown 
we've  got  to  have  something  to  take  its  place." 

"  And  what  will  that  something  be  ?"  asked  Miss  Linley. 
"  Plato's  ideal  republic  ?" 

"  Plato  ?  He  isn't  one  of  those  German  fellows,  is  he  ?  I 
never  took  much  stock  in  them." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say — "  Then  Miss  Linley  paused  and 
looked  at  him  helplessly. 

Baretta  laughed.  "  It  was  a  very  bad  joke,  wasn't  it  ?"  he 
asked.  He  could  not  bear  to  confess  the  truth — that  he  had 
never  heard  of  Plato ;  although,  considering  how  well  he  had 
improved  in  other  directions  his  limited  opportunities,  it  was, 
perhaps,  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  I  don't  appreciate  jokes,"  said  Miss  Linley, 
coldly.  The  young  man's  air  struck  her  as  offensive,  and  she 
began  to  think  that  she  had  gone  much  too  far  in  an  acquaint- 
ance with  him.  "  Perhaps,"  she  added,  rising  and  handing  him 
back  the  cup,  "  the  lectures  wouldn't  do  any  good,  after  all.  Is 
that  Mr.  Pinkerton  ?  Oh,  you  do  not  know  him  ?" 

Then  her  face  became  as  absolutely  expressionless  as  it  is 

26 


possible  for  a  human  face  to  become,  and  Baretta  recognized 
the  fact  that  he  was  dismissed.  He  went  back  to  Miss  Tredwell 
with  mingled  feelings  of  rage  and  shame.  He  would  get  out  of 
this  at  once. 

"  Oh  no — don't  say  you  are  going !"  cried  Miss  Tredwell. 
There  were  two  or  three  young  men  about  her,  and  she  was 
beaming  impartially  upon  them  all.  "  Why,  there  are  so  many 
people  who  haven't  met  you.  Mrs.  Chilton,"  she  called,  as  that 
lady  drifted  by,  "  you  mustn't  let  Mr.  Baretta  go  yet." 

Mrs.  Chilton  looked  at  the  young  man's  flushed  face  and  took 
in  the  situation  at  a  glance.  She  had  been  rather  thoughtless ; 
she  was  so  used  to  having  her  callers  look  after  themselves  that 
she  had  forgotten  the  embarrassment  of  his  position  as  a  new- 
comer, to  whom  even  the  simplest  social  observances  must  be 
strange.  "  Oh,  I  cannot  think  of  letting  you  get  away  yet,"  she 
said,  laying  a  detaining  hand  upon  his  arm.  "  When  so  many 
arrive  all  at  once,  one  is  apt  to  forget  about  the  rest.  And  I 
was  talking  about  that  wonderful  poem  of  Browning's,  '  Mr. 
Sludge  the  Medium,'  with  Mr.  Pinkerton.  You  must  know 
who  Mr.  Pinkerton  is — Albert  Hazard  Pinkerton.  He  reads 
Browning  exquisitely.  He  was  with  Miss  Tredwell  when  you 
came  in.  He  wants  to  know  you."  Mrs.  Chilton  cast  a 
rapid  glance  about  the  room.  "Oh,  he  is  talking  to  Miss 
Linley.  How  did  you  like  Miss  Linley  ?  She's  a  remarkable 
girl.  She's  at  Harvard — in  the  Annex,  you  know.  They 
say  she  is  a  wonderful  mathematician.  Here  comes  Mr.  Allen. 
Oh,  you  must  meet  him  —  Mr.  Orrin  Fox  Allen,  who  got  out 
that  lovely  book,  '  Round  the  Zodiac  in  Rhyme.'  Have  you 
seen  those  articles  of  his  on  *  The  Confusions  of  Sex'  in  the 
Northern  Review  ?  I  don't  agree  with  him,  but  they  are  im- 
mensely clever ;  you  ought  to  read  them.  Mr.  Allen,  I  have 
been  warning  Mr.  Baretta  not  to  believe  what  you  say  against 
us  women." 

"  Mr.  Baretta  will  not  believe  that  I  could  say  anything  against 
some  women,"  said  Mr.  Allen  with  a  bow.  Then  he  extended 
his  hand  to  the  young  man.  "  I'm  glad  to  make  your  acquaint- 
ance," he  said. 

"  Mr.  Allen  is  interested  in  Socialism — as  an  intellectual  rnove- 

27 


ment,"  said  Mrs.  Chilton.  Then  some  one  came  up  to  speak  to 
her,  and  the  two  men  were  thus  left  together. 

"  Yes,  I  want  to  have  a  long  talk  with  you  on  that  question," 
said  Mr.  Allen.  "  We  haven't  much  of  a  chance  here.  You 
must  come  out  to  Brookline  and  see  me." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  I'm  a  poor  hand  at  paying  visits,"  said  Ba- 
retta.  The  other  man's  cordial  manner  had  put  him  more  at 
his  ease  than  he  had  been  hitherto,  but  he  thought  of  his  former 
blunders  and  resolved  to  feel  his  way  discreetly. 

"  Oh,  well,  you  will  find  time  some  day.  I  hear  you  do  a 
great  deal  of  good  among  the  lower  classes.  Of  course  that's 
the  thing,  after  all — practical  help.  With  all  due  respect  to  yon 
and  the  rest,  I  don't  think  we  shall  see  the  Socialistic  reorgan- 
ization of  society  in  our  day." 

"  It  may  be  nearer  than  most  people  think.  If  you  could  come 
with  me  among  the  lower  classes,  as  you  call  them,  and  under- 
stand all  the  miserable  conditions  of  their  existence,  you  might 
be  more  willing  to  credit  them  with  seeing  the  way  of  escape." 

"  Ah,  yes — if  you  are  sure  that  it  is  a  way  of  escape.  But 
pardon  me  for  offending  you  by  my  ill-judged  phrase.  It's  sim- 
ply the  conventional  fashion  of  putting  it,  don't  you  know." 

"  I  know,"  exclaimed  Baretta,  somewhat  bitterly.  "  It's  one 
of  the  things  we  are  going  to  abolish." 

Mr.  Allen  laughed  good-humouredly.  "  I  would  go  in  for  So- 
cialism if  it  would  abolish  some  things."  His  eye  took  in  the 
figure  of  Albert  Hazard  Pinkerton,  who  was  now  talking  lan- 
guidly to  a  faded  -  looking  lady  of  uncertain  age.  "There's 
Pinkerton,  now — his  Browning  readings  ought  to  be  abolished. 
Your  regenerated  world  won't  have  any  need  of  them,  or  of  the 
paragraphs  which  he  writes  for  the  society  papers.  In  fact," 
added  Mr.  Allen,  laughing  again,  "  if  there  isn't  any  society 
there  won't  be  any  society  papers.  That  woman  he's  talking  to 
is  Mrs.  Medora  Watt-Jones.  She  spells  her  name  with  a  hyphen 
— no  one  could  ever  find  out  why.  Probably  you've  heard 
of  her." 

"  What  does  she  do  ?"  asked  Baretta,  whom  this  satiric  com- 
mentary upon  his  neighbours  was  beginning  to  mollify. 

"Oh,  that  is  what  a  good  many  of  us  would  like  to  know. 
•  28 


AH  these  women  in  Boston  who  write  make  a  tremendous  cack- 
ling at  times,  but  somehow  or  other  the  nest  always  seems  to  be 
empty." 

"I  hope  you  don't  include  Mrs.  Chilton  in  that  category." 

"One  always  excepts  one's  hostess,"  said  the  other  man, 
gravely.  He  glanced  about  the  room  again.  "  There's  Miss 
Lawrence  just  coming  in.  She  is  what  I  call  a  nice  girl.  I  like 
her  immensely,  although  I  don't  think  she  returns  the  compli- 
ment. Of  course  you've  never  heard  of  her.  Well,  she  isn't 
a  celebrity — like  you  and  me,"  he  added,  smiling. 

"  It  happens  that  I  know  Miss  Lawrence — very  well,"  said 
Barctta,  proudly. 

"  Indeed  !  Then  you  must  agree  with  me  that  she  is  charm- 
ing." 

"  Yes."  Baretta  was  aware  that  this  cold  assent  sounded  un- 
gracious, but  he  felt  that  he  could  not  discuss  Mildred  Lawrence 
with  a  stranger."  How  exquisitely  beautiful  she  looked  in  that 
close-fitting,  fawn-coloured  gown.  How  sweet  was  the  face  under 
the  wide-brimmed  hat !  This  was  the  silent  comment  (perhaps 
too  favourable)  of  an  impressionable  young  man.  To  other  eyes 
Miss  Lawrence  was  a  rather  pretty  girl,  with  soft  brown  hair  and 
brown  eyes,  finely -cut  features,  a  complexion  just  a  little  too 
pale,  and  a  tall  and  well-formed  figure.  But  what  mere  catalogue 
like  this  ever  did  justice  to  any  woman  possessing  a  fair  share  of 
good  looks?  You  cannot  imprison  the  Ewig-AVeibliche  in  a 
photograph — much  less  in  cold  print. 

"  I  dare  say,  now,  one  would  call  Hamilton  Wreath  a  celeb- 
rity," Mr.  Allen  continued,  indicating  a  man  who  was  standing 
near  the  doorway.  "  That  is  he,  talking  with  Miss  Varian — you 
must  have  seen  Miss  Varian  at  the  Lyceum ;  she's  a  delightful 
actress — you  can  see  that  by  the  way  she  pretends  to  be  inter- 
ested in  Wreath's  talk.  He  comes  from  the  wild  and  woolly 
West ;  he  writes  those  stories  in  the  Aurora — all  about  life  on 
the  prairies  and  that  sort  of  thing.  He's  one  of  the  realists. 
Oh,  you  ought  to  know  him ;  I  am  sure  he  is  interested  in  So- 
cialism. I  wish  he'd  trim  that  straggling  beard  of  his  and  take 
a  bath.  But  I  beg  your  pardon — perhaps  you  do  know  him." 

"  No,"  said  Baretta,  stiffly,  "  I  haven't  that  pleasure." 

29 


"  A  man  who  will  wear  a  frock-coat  and  a  white  tie — oh,  well, 
perhaps  Mr.  Wreath  is  a  genius,  after  all,  and  it's  impertinent  to 
criticise  him.  I  really  think  you  ought  to  know  him,  though. 
Perhaps  you  could  put  him  in  the  way  of  something  realistic  for 
his  next  story.  I  am  sure  he  won't  find  any  material  here. 
We're  all  too  conscious — too  artificial.  Ah,  there  is  Mrs.  Huns- 
don.  Do  you  know  Mrs.  Hunsdon  ?  One  can  always  remember 
her  by  her  elbows.  She  uses  them  with  great  effect;  they're 
sort  of  exclamation  points  in  her  conversation,  don't  you  know. 
Mrs.  Malaprop  would  have  called  her  a  fine  example  of  female 
punctuation.  She  is  signalling  to  me  to  come  and  talk  with  her. 
I'm  very  glad  I  met  you ;  we  must  have  a  long  talk  together 
some  day.  Don't  forget  to  come  and  see  me  in  Brookline." 

Then  the  two  drifted  apart.  Baretta  had  already  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  he  did  not  like  Mr.  Allen.  He  had  a  feeling  that 
if  he  made  fun  of  others  he  would  make  fun  of  him  ;  and  the 
young  man  was  very  sensitive  to  ridicule.  He  recalled  now  that 
remark  about  the  frock-coat  and  the  white  tie,  with  an  uneasy 
consciousness  that  his  own  frock-coat — it  was  the  best  he  had — 
might  be  out  of  place.  He  had  been  regretting  before  he  came 
his  lack  of  what  he  called  a  dress-suit ;  but  the  fact  that  no  one 
in  the  room  wore  one  gave  him  some  comfort. 

Presently  Mrs.  Chilton  came  up  again  ,  and  one  or  two  people 
whose  names  he  did  not  remember  wanted  to  talk  with  him 
about  his  "  mission."  Baretta  was  usually  fond  of  his  own  elo- 
quence on  this  point ;  but  the  idle  chatter  of  those  whom  he  felt 
sure  had  no  interest  in  the  Socialistic  movement  somehow  an- 
noyed him ;  he  thought  that  they  were  only  trying  to  get  a  little 
amusement  for  themselves.  Indeed,  no  one  seemed  to  be  very 
much  in  earnest  about  anything.  He  had  heard  that  all  intel- 
lectual Boston  came  together  at  Mrs.  Chilton's.  He  now  said  to 
himself  that  intellect  did  not  seem  to  be  much  in  evidence  just 
at  present.  The  harshness  of  this  judgment  was  perhaps  a  little 
mollified  after  a  time,  as  he  intercepted  nods  and  glances  which 
were  evidently  aimed  in  his  direction,  and  thus  came  to  the  flat- 
tering conclusion  that  Mrs.  Chilton's  friends  had  heard  of  him, 
after  all,  and  that  she  had  not  asked  him  to  come  only  to  ignore 
him.  And  while  these  thoughts  were  passing  through  his  mind, 

30 


and  he  was  exchanging  casual  words  with  this  person  or  that — 
the  painful  shyness  that  had  possessed  him  at  first  was  passing 
away — he  was  wondering  if  he  should  have  a  chance  to  speak  to 
Miss  Lawrence.  She  had  smiled  and  nodded  at  him  across  the 
room.  Now  she  was  in  the  corner  with  Miss  Tredwell,  and  sev- 
eral young  men  were  hanging  over  the  two  with  what  seemed  to 
Baretta  to  be  unnecessary  solicitude.  His  dark  face  took  on 
the  scowl  which  made  it  so  unattractive,  as  he  watched  them. 

"  He's  a  most  extraordinary  looking  man,  Mrs.  Chilton,"  whis- 
pered Mrs.  Medora  Watt-Jones  to  her  hostess.  "  Of  the  Italian 
brigand  type,"  she  added,  as  she  saw  the  scowl.  "  Oh,  I'm  sure 
I  wouldn't  want  to  get  his  ill-will.  I  should  be  afraid  of  the 
vendetta,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know.  Is  he  an  Italian  ? — 
it's  an  unusual  name." 

"  He  is  a  Hungarian,  I  am  told,"  said  Mrs.  Chilton,  "  and  of 
good  if  not  noble  family.  His  father  was  a  political  refugee." 

"  Ah — a  companion  of  Kossuth  !  How  romantic  !  I  suppose 
he  is  really  Count  or  Prince,  or  something  of  that  kind." 

"  Oh  no — I  think  not.  I  met  him  at  the  Lawrences ;  I  only 
know  what  they  told  me.  Indeed,  judging  by  what  I  have  ob- 
served, I  should  say — " 

"  Well  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Watt-Jones,  expectantly. 

"  Nothing  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Chilton,  hastily.  She  was  a  good- 
natured  woman,  and  she  did  not  want  to  say  that  Baretta's 
manners  had  not  struck  her  as  bearing  out  the  theory  of  his 
superior  birth.  "  I  dare  say,"  she  added,  "  he  is  a  gentleman. 
You  must  ask  Miss  Lawrence  if  you  want  to  know  more." 

"I  assure  you  the  young  man  has  not  aroused  the  slightest 
interest  or  curiosity  in  me,"  declared  Mrs.  Watt -Jones,  in- 
wardly resolving  to  discover,  if  she  could,  something  to  the  dis- 
advantage of  this  adventurer  whom  Mrs.  Chilton  had  seen  fit  to 
introduce. 

During  this  dialogue  Baretta  had  worked  his  way  into  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  tea-table,  and  now  Miss  Lawrence  looked 
up  and  spoke  to  him  over  the  shoulder  of  one  of  the  obnoxious 
young  men,  who  had  turned  to  speak  to  Miss  Tredwell.  "  Oh, 
Mr.  Baretta !"  she  said. 

It  was  not  exactly  a  brilliant  remark,  but  it  had  the  effect  of 

31 


smoothing  out  the  frown  in  Baretta's  face.  He  edged  along  a 
little  farther  until  he  had  reached  her  side. 

"  Mrs.  Chilton  told  me  you  were  coming,"  she  remarked. 

"  And  is  that  why  you  came  ?" 

The  girl's  countenance  took  on  an  expression  of  reserve  in 
striking  contrast  to  its  previous  friendliness.  "  I  don't  think 
you  quite  realize  what  you  are  saying,  Mr.  Baretta." 

"  I  am  making  a  mess  of  it  all  round !"  the  young  man  ex- 
claimed, savagely.  "  I  think  I  had  better  go  back  to  my  natural 
level — among  what  you  would  call  the  lower  classes." 

"  You  are  unjust.  But — but  it  was  I  who  was  to  blame  for 
misunderstanding  you." 

"  Oh,  I  see  what  a  mistake  I  have  made :  I  ought  never  to 
have  come  at  all." 

"  I  do  not  think  that,"  said  Miss  Lawrence,  gently.  "  But, 
there — let  us  forget  this  silly  dispute,  and  say  that  we  were  both 
to  blame.  Miss  Tredwell  tells  me  that  she  had  quite  a  conver- 
sation with  you.  Don't  you  think  she's  a  charming  girl  ?" 

"  Oh  yes — very,"  said  Baretta,  vaguely. 

Here  their  conversation  was  interrupted,  and  Baretta  was 
again  left  to  his  reflections.  The  fact  that  he  had  been  rude 
to  Miss  Lawrence  filled  him  with  dismay,  and  added  to  his  con- 
viction of  the  folly  of  trying  to  make  his  way  among  people 
with  whom  he  could  naturally  have  little  in  common.  It  was 
quite  true  that  he  had  better  go  back — to  Arragon  Street  and 
Maud  Dolan.  He  could  marry  Maud ;  of  that  he  felt  sure. 
But  Mildred  Lawrence — he  might  break  his  heart  for  her ;  she 
was  infinitely  above  him.  Certainly  all  her  friends  would  say 
so.  In  spite  of  all  those  foolish  hints  he  had  given  out  con- 
cerning the  importance  of  his  family  in  the  country  from 
which  his  father  came,  they  would  look  upon  him  as  a  mere 
adventurer ;  and  they  would  be  justified  in  doing  so.  His  fa- 
ther might  have  been  a  refugee,  for  all  he  knew,  but  he  was 
pretty  sure  that  he  had  not  fled  from  political  oppression. 
What  would  be  said  of  him  if  the  truth  were  known  ?  It  was 
idle  to  talk  about  one  man  being  as  good  as  another;  he  might 
preach  this  doctrine,  but  instinct  told  him  that  it  was  false. 

.Miss  Lawrence  rose  as  if  to  go,  and  Baretta  rose,  too.  He 

32 


was  conscious  of  a  strange  throbbing  at  his  heart  as  he  stood 
waiting  for  her  to  pass,  and  he  hardly  heard  what  Daisy  Tred- 
well  was  saying,  although  she  was  obviously  talking  to  him. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Mildred,  gently,  turning  and  holding  out  her 
hand. 

"  But  I  have  so  much  I  want  to  say  to  you,"  declared  the 
young  man,  following  her.  "  May  I  not  walk  along  with  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed  !"  she  cried,  hastily.  Then,  as  she  saw  the 
blood  mount  to  his  face  at  this  rebuff,  she  added,  "  I  have  an- 
other call  to  make,  Mr.  Baretta.  But  I  shall  be  at  home  to- 
morrow afternoon,  and,  of  course,  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  see 
you." 

Five  minutes  afterwards  Baretta  had  taken  a  confused  fare- 
well of  Mrs.  Chilton  and  had  left  the  house. 


CHAPTER  IV 
"  NEVER  IS  A  LONG  WORD  " 

PHILIP  YATES  was  profoundly  dissatisfied  with  himself  and 
his  prospects  at  this  period  of  his  career.  He  felt  that  he  had 
not  improved  his  opportunities  as  he  should  have  done,  which 
is  upon  the  whole  worse  than  not  having  had  any  opportunities 
to  improve.  Laying  the  blame  for  failure  upon  circumstances 
induces  a  kind  of  vicarious  satisfaction  ;  but  nothing  is  more 
miserable  than  the  conviction  that  one's  direct  personal  respon- 
sibility does  not  admit  of  such  an  excuse.  And  Yates  had  no 
desire  to  indulge  himself  in  pleasing  fictions  regarding  his  own 
conduct.  When  one  has  been  a  fool,  and  others  are  aware  of 
one's  folly,  it  is  idle  to  deny  it.  In  such  a  case  honesty  is  em- 
phatically the  best  policy. 

But,  after  all,  the  folly  of  which  Yates  had  been  guilty  was 
not  so  very  culpable.  Hundreds  of  young  men  do  worse  things 
and  live  to  be  reputable  citizens.  He  had  neither  vice  nor  dis- 
honour to  lament.  It  was  only  because  so  much  had  been  ex- 
pected of  him,  and  he  had  done  so  little  to  satisfy  expectation 
that  the  tribunal  of  his  own  conscience  condemned  him.  Many 
men  would  have  taken  the  verdict  more  lightly.  But  there  was 
a  personal  reason  why  it  should  go  hard  with  Yates.  He  was 
separated  from  the  woman  whom  he  loved.  He  had  not  been 
quite  frank  with  Baretta  in  telling  him  that  Mildred  Lawrence 
was  an  utter  stranger ;  and  yet  he  knew  that  if  he  should  meet 
her  in  the  street  she  would  go  by  him  with  downcast  eyes. 
There  had  once  been  such  a  meeting,  and  this  was  what  had 
happened.  Philip  felt  that  he  was  being  very  hardly  used  ; 
surely  if  she  had  ever  loved  him  she  could  not  have  had  the 

34 


heart  to  do  it ;  but  after  a  time  he  began  to  see  that  the  blame 
was  his.  All  the  happiness  for  which  he  had  once  believed 
himself  to  be  destined  he  had  thrown  away  forever.  His  was 
an  essentially  genial  nature,  and  this  habit  of  morbid  introspec- 
tion was  new  to  him ;  its  recurrences  were  therefore  sporadic, 
and  nothing  would  have  surprised  some  of  his  friends  more 
than  to  tell  them  that  Yates  was  cherishing  a  secret  grief.  His 
fair  complexion,  his  broad  shoulders,  his  erect  carriage,  his  easy 
striding  gait — all  these  characteristics  somehow  combined  to 
impress  upon  the  observer  a  conviction  that  he  was  prosperous 
and  cheerful.  One  could  not  argue  anything  but  the  perfection 
of  mental  and  moral  health  from  his  redundant  physical  vigour. 
Men  liked  him  and  women  adored  him  for  this  superb  mas- 
culinity. Sometimes  those  less  abundantly  gifted,  like  Baretta, 
envied  him. 

Philip's  history  may  be  briefly  narrated  here.  He  came  of 
an  old  family — one  that  had  been  honourably  identified  with 
the  early  history  of  New  England,  although  in  these  days  its 
eminence  had  been  somewhat  obscured  by  the  lack  of  the  wealth 
which  is  essential  to  social  leadership.  Still,  a  Yates  had  ad- 
vantages which  it  would  be  idle  to  decry.  Philip  had  told 
Baretta  that  he  lived  in  Bohemia,  but  this  was  clearly  an  ex- 
aggeration. If  he  was  not  seen  in  certain  places,  it  was  rather 
because  he  chose  to  hold  himself  aloof  than  because  entrance 
would  be  denied  him  if  he  sought  it.  The  fact  is,  that  having 
a  modest  income,  he  was  too  proud  to  associate  with  those  who 
had  large  incomes  except  upon  equal  terms.  They  might  over- 
look the  difference,  but  he  could  not.  And,  indeed,  he  found 
Bohemia  a  pleasant  country.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  had 
been  a  rather  noted  athlete  during  his  college  days,  his  taste  led 
him  to  books  rather  than  to  sport.  He  had  as  yet  done  noth- 
ing in  literature — turning  off  reviews  for  the  newspapers  did 
not  count — but  he  had  not  quite  abandoned  all  hope  in  this  di- 
rection. He  had  wasted  the  years  of  his  youth,  it  is  true ;  but 
when  a  man  is  only  thirty  it  is  hard  to  believe  that  his  career 
is  behind  him.  He  was  alone  in  the  world,  and  he  could  sup- 
ply his  own  wants  whatever  happened.  That  was  the  one 
source  of  consolation  which  he  had.  It  was  not  much  to  a 

35 


man  who  had  started  out  with  great  ambitions,  and  had  been 
unwilling  to  admit  that  they  were  not  likely  to  be  satisfied, 
even  when  others  had  recognized  their  futility. 

Philip's  boyhood  was  passed  mainly  at  the  old  homestead  in 
Lexington,  a  handsome  mansion  of  the  colonial  type,  surrounded 
by  ample  grounds.  He  had  fitted  for  Harvard  at  the  famous 
school  at  Exeter,  where,  in  addition  to  his  feats  at  foot-ball,  he 
had  shown  promise  of  noteworthy  mental  achievement.  During 
his  Freshman  year  at  Cambridge  he  might  have  passed  for  a  fine 
example  of  the  mens  sana  in  corpore  sano.  Then  the  change 
came.  It  was  not  so  much  the  time  he  took  as  one  of  the  Var- 
sity eleven,  as  his  pursuit  of  branches  of  learning  not  provided 
for  in  the  catalogue,  which  brought  him  to  the  point  of  just 
barely  escaping  being  dropped  at  the  end  of  the  Sophomore 
year.  He  fell  into  the  habit  which  is  most  fatal  to  scholarship 
— that  of  general  reading.  Very  possibly  he  had  a  more  intel- 
ligent appreciation  of  the  subjects  which  he  studied  than  some 
men  who  left  Harvard  with  a  mayna  cum ;  but  intelligent  appre- 
ciation does  not  get  a  man  "  marks."  Philip  had  no  memory 
for  small  details,  and  he  did  not  try  to  cultivate  one ;  so  that  a 
few  inconvenient  questions  put  by  the  examiner  were  sure  to 
trip  him  up.  Of  course  there  was  a  good  deal  of  disappoint- 
ment over  the  result  at  home.  His  father  was  a  shy,  studious 
man,  and  he  could  not  understand  this  strange  mixture  of  brill- 
iancy and  stupidity.  Philip  was  very  sorry,  and  next  year  he 
really  did  better.  But  on  Commencement  Day  his  name  was 
pretty  far  down  in  the  list,  and  his  mother  and  sisters  were  de- 
nied all  hope  of  seeing  him  on  the  platform  of  Sanders  Theatre 
in  the  gown  which  they  felt  sure  would  be  so  becoming  to  him. 
The  worst  of  it  was  that  he  had  written  his  part,  and  that  one 
of  his  tutors  told  him  it  would  surely  have  been  accepted  for 
delivery  had  not  the  very  poor  showing  which  he  made  in  the 
rank-list  prejudiced  the  committee  against  him.  He  took  the 
rebuke  philosophically  enough ;  it  was  only  the  mortification  of 
the  people  at  home  that  troubled  him.  Unfortunately,  the  im- 
pression that  he  "  didn't  amount  to  so  very  much "  gained 
ground  among  his  acquaintances  when  he  dawdled  through  the 
Law  School  for  two  years  more,  and  finally  left  without  taking 

36 


his  degree.  He  declared,  of  course,  that  he  had  no  taste  for 
the  legal  profession.  But  the  question  why  he  had  not  found 
this  out  before  was  an  obvious  one ;  and  he  was  not  very  suc- 
cessful in  answering  it.  Meanwhile  Mr.  Yates  the  elder  had 
died,  and  Philip  had  now  a  small  income  of  his  own — sufficient 
to  relieve  him  of  all  concern  in  la  lutte  pour  la  vie;  which  may 
possibly  have  been  a  bad  thing  for  him.  He  did  not  go  to  Lex- 
ington very  much  after  this ;  he  felt  that  he  was  in  bad  odour 
at  home — not  because  he  had  done  anything  wrong,  but  because 
he  had  done  nothing  at  all.  Women  will  oftener  forgive  down- 
right vice  than  inconspicuous  failure.  If  Philip  had  been 
"  wild,"  Mrs.  Yates  would  have  shed  many  a  tear.  But  tears  at 
least  relieve  the  o'erfraught  heart.  When  a  son  does  neither 
well  nor  ill  a  mother  is  denied  the  solace  of  grief  no  less  than 
the  comfort  of  joy.  Philip  had  continued  in  this  uncomfortable 
state  for  so  long  that  all  hope  of  his  emerging  from  it  had  been 
abandoned.  Mrs.  Yates  told  her  friends  vaguely  that  he  was 
devoting  himself  to  literature ;  but  when  they  pressed  her  for 
particulars,  she  could  only  say,  "  Oh,  for  the  magazines."  She 
had  a  single  article  signed  with  his  name,  which  she  could  show 
to  unbelievers.  He  sent  her  marked  copies  of  the  weekly  paper 
for  which  he  wrote  now  and  then.  But  to  these  contributions 
there  was  no  name  attached,  so  that  the  result  seemed  to  her  to  be 
almost  too  intangible  to  mention.  Once  he  told  her  to  wait  until 
his  novel  was  published.  She  took  the  saying  for  a  jest,  however, 
and  still  thought  of  his  prospects  with  gentle  melancholy. 

Baretta's  reference  to  Mildred  Lawrence  had  affected  Philip 
strangely.  It  brought  back  all  his  old  love  for  her  with  bitter 
intensity.  He  knew  that  it  was  hopeless,  but  he  went  on  cher- 
ishing it  just  the  same.  If  ever  he  tried  to  forget,  a  chance 
allusion  like  this  would  bring  back  the  memories  of  the  past  in  a 
resistless  tide.  Oblivion  is,  alas!  impossible  to  humanity  this 
side  of  death.  Each  experience  leaves  its  ineffaceable  mark. 
When  what  is  gone  seems  gone  beyond  recall,  a  glimpse  of  sky 
or  sea,  a  strain  of  music,  a  familiar  voice,  a  dimly  recollected 
face,  will  bring  it  all  back.  There  is  a  poignant  truth  in«  the 
old  saying  that  one  will  forgive  but  not  forget.  Forgiveness  is 
within  our  power,  but  forgetfulness  is  an  impossibility.  Philip 


knew  that  if  he  should  see  Mildred  to-morrow,  and  she  should 
greet  him  with  the  old  half-shy,  half-welcoming  smile,  there 
would  still  be  something  between  them  which  could  never  be 
obliterated.  Sometimes  he  thought  that  she  had  treated  him 
badly ;  it  is  not  in  human  nature  to  accept  without  question  all 
the  responsibility  for  having  made  a  wretched  failure  of  life. 
Since  Baretta  had  mentioned  her  name,  Philip  had  made  her 
preference  for  "  that  fellow  "  the  point  of  numerous  unuttered 
epigrams.  How  the  deuce  did  she  come  to  know  him,  anyway  ? 
He  felt  an  absurd,  unreasoning  jealousy  of  the  young  man. 
There  was  something  incongruous  in  a  friendship  between  those 
two.  He  himself  had  made  Baretta's  acquaintance  in  a  curious 
way.  In  his  pursuit  of  novel  experiences — he  had  a  vague  idea 
that  he  would  "  write  them  up  "  some  day — he  had  gone  to  one 
of  the  meetings  of  a  Socialist  club  of  which  he  had  heard.  A 
foreign-looking  young  man,  who  seemed  to  be  one  of  the  lead- 
ing spirits  of  the  occasion,  had  denounced  with  great  fervour 
the  tyranny  of  capital.  His  impassioned  earnestness  had  at 
once  aroused  and  interested  Yates,  who  took  pains  to  get  a 
chance  to  talk  with  him.  Baretta  was  always  willing  to  ex- 
patiate upon  his  plans  for  the  redemption  of  humanity  to  any 
one  who  would  listen  ;  and  Yates  struck  him  as  a  man  whom  it 
would  be  worth  while  to  convert.  It  is  true  that  he  had  made 
no  great  progress  in  this  direction  during  the  year  which  had 
elapsed  since  that  evening.  But  perhaps  he  was  a  little  proud 
of  knowing  one  whom  he  had  set  down  as  a  "  swell."  At  all 
events,  he  urged  Yates  to  come  to  the  club  again,  and  was  very 
polite  to  him  when  he  came ;  and  once  or  twice,  when  the  meet- 
ing was  over,  he  had  accompanied  Yates  down-town,  and  had 
accepted  his  request  to  come  and  take  supper  with  him.  Thus 
the  two  young  men  fell  into  something  approaching  intimacy, 
for  Philip  was  good-natured  and  tolerant,  and  liked  to  meet 
people  on  a  plane  of  democratic  equality.  He  called  Baretta 
"  my  dear  fellow,"  and  bade  him  drop  the  absurdity  of  address- 
ing him  as  "  Mr.  Yates."  But  when  he  heard  this  man  from 
nowhere  speak  of  Mildred  Lawrence  in  that  familiar  way  he 
resented  it ;  when  he  came  to  reflect  upon  the  matter  afterwards, 
it  seemed  to  him  almost  an  insult.  He  muttered  something 

38 


about  a  beggar  on  horseback,  and  resolved  that  he  would  cut 
Socialist  meetings  and  Socialist  orators. 

He  was  thinking  of  Miss  Lawrence,  and  of  Baretta's  inex- 
plicable association  with  her,  on  this  bright  spring  afternoon,  a 
few  days  after  that  young  man's  visit  to  his  rooms,  as  he  strode 
up  Commonwealth  Avenue  under  the  overarching  elms,  now 
faintly  green  with  the  promise  of  foliage.  Suddenly  his  heart 
seemed  to  stand  still,  and  a  sensation  akin  to  faintness  came 
over  him.  What  slender  figure  was  this  approaching  him 
through  the  sunlit  vista  of  the  long  mall  ?  Was  it  indeed 
Mildred  herself  ?  She  was  advancing  in  apparent  unconscious- 
ness of  his  presence.  He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  with  a  half- 
formed  resolution  to  avoid  her.  Surely  a  meeting  could  only  be 
a  source  of  pain.  But,  no — what  had  he  done  that  he  should 
shrink  away  like  a  thief?  He  was  willing  to  acknowledge  that 
their  separation  was  for  the  most  part  his  fault.  And  yet  she 
might  have  forgiven  him.  That  she  had  not  done  so  showed 
him  clearly  enough  that  she  had  never  really  loved  him.  Well, 
he  would  meet  her  face  to  face — he  would  let  her  see  that  he 
bore  his  hurt  without  wincing.  The  two  drew  nearer.  Her 
eyes  were  averted  from  him.  Perhaps  she  did  not  see  him — 
perhaps  she  was  trying  not  to  see  him.  Philip  walked  on,  look- 
ing squarely  at  her.  In  another  moment  he  would  have  passed 
her.  But  then  a  sudden  resolution  took  possession  of  him,  and 
he  stopped  and  called  her  name. 

"  Mildred !" 

The  girl  looked  up  quickly;  and  now  her  usually  pale  face 
was  flooded  with  sudden  colour. 

"  Arc  you  unwilling  to  speak  to  me  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I  do  not  think  it  would  be  any  use,"  she  said.  But  she  did 
not  hurry  away,  as  he  had  feared  she  might.  She  waited  as  if 
to  learn  what  it  was  that  he  wanted  of  her. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  said  Philip,  rather  bitterly.  "  But  I 
am  going  to  ask  you  to  let  me  say  a  few  words,  and  then — well, 
it  shall  be  as  you  decide." 

"  I  have  decided." 

"And  you  condemn  me  without  a  hearing!  You  are  unfair 
— unjust !" 

39 


"Did  you  stop  me  to  tell  me  that?"  The  words  sounded 
harshly,  but  in  her  face  were  only  sadness  and  regret. 

"  Will  you  let  me  walk  with  you  a  few  steps  ?"  Philip  went 
on,  with  a  sudden  assumption  of  calmness.  "  I  must  not  keep 
you  standing  here."  Then,  as  he  saw  her  hesitation,  he  added, 
"  I  have  done  nothing  so  disgraceful  that  you  need  fear  being 
seen  in  my.  company." 

To  this  Mildred  made  no  reply.  She  bowed  slightly  and 
walked  on  by  his  side  with  downcast  eyes.  But,  as  he  looked 
at  her,  he  saw  that  her  lips  trembled,  and  that  a  single  tear 
glistened  on  her  long  dark  lashes, 

"  I  only  wish  to  express  my  sorrow,"  Philip  continued,  "  for1 
the  bitter  things  I  said  to  you  that  day  when — when  we  parted. 
I  was  quite  unjust;  I  acknowledge  it  frankly.  I  am  a  wretched 
failure — a  disappointment  to  myself  no  less  than  to  all  my 
friends.  But — but  I  think  I  could  have  given  you  some  reason 
to  have  confidence  in  me — I  think  that  I  might  now  make  more 
of  my  opportunities — if  all  that  would  render  it  worth  while 
were  not  lost.  You  were  a  little  hard  with  me,  Mildred — oh,  I 
am  not  complaining ! — and  your  words  stung  me  so  that  I  re- 
torted too  sharply ;  and  so  we  had  our  quarrel,  and  the  end 
came.  If — if  I  ever  had  a  hope  that  we  might  be  friends  again, 
what  you  have  said  to-day  has  dispelled  it.  Yes,  I  was  an  idle, 
worthless  fellow ;  you  were  right  in  thinking  that  I  would  have 
made  a  bad  husband  for  a  girl  who  had  ambitions.  And  yet 
God  knows  I  would  have  tried  to  make  you  happy !" 

"  It  was  not  that — altogether,"  said  Mildred,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  Well,  since  we  have  met  once  more  I  will  tell  you  something 
which  perhaps  I  ought  to  leave  unsaid.  If  I  reproached  you 
with  your  idleness — if  I  seemed  harsh  and  cruel — it  was  not  be- 
cause I  despised  you,  as  you  think,  but  because  I  believed  you 
capable  of  better  things.  And  then — then  you  took  everything 
amiss  and  spoke  the  bitter  words  that  parted  us." 

"  Mildred !"  cried  the  young  man,  with  a  new  light  of  joy  in 
his  face.  "Can  you — will  you  forgive  me?  I  tell  you  I  regret- 
ted the  words  as  soon  as  I  had  said  them — I  ask  your  forgive- 
ness from  the  bottom  of  my  heart." 

"Ah,  yes — I  ought  not  to  have  spoken;  I  should  have  known 

40 


you  would  misunderstand  me.  Don't  you  see,  Philip,  that  it 
isn't  regret,  or  anything  in  this  world,  that  could  blot  out  the 
past  from  my  memory,  or  even  from  yours  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  are  quite  wrong — you  are  quite  mistaken.  It  is 
absurd  that  a  few  hasty  words  should  separate  us.  If  you  ever 
loved  me — " 

"  Yes,  I  did  love  you,"  said  Mildred,  calmly.  "  I — I  love  you 
now — what  is  the  use  of  pretending  otherwise?"  Again  her  lips 
trembled,  and  a  blush  swept  over  her  white  and  delicate  face. 

"  And  if  you  love  me — " 

"  I  am  sorry  I  told  you.  But  you  could  not  understand  me, 
no  matter  what  I  said."  She  stopped,  and  held  out  her  hand. 
"  I  will  shake  hands  with  you,  and  say  good-bye."  There  was 
a  look  of  something  like  agony  -in  the  mysterious  depths  of 
her  eyes,  but  her  voice  was  firm  and  clear. 

Yates  took  the  hand  in  his,  although  he  hardly  saw  it  for  the 
sudden  mist  which  blinded  him.  "Good-bye!"  he  said.  "And 
— and  you  wish  to  be  strangers?" 

"  Yes— that  will  be  best." 

"  Oh,  Mildred  !"  Then,  as  she  drew  her  hand  away,  he  real- 
ized where  he  was,  and  that  chance  passers-by  might  be  regard- 
ing them  curiously  ;  and  a  resolution  to  bear  this  blow  like  a 
man  took  possession  of  him.  "  Well,  I  yield  to  your  decision. 
I  shall  not  speak  to  you  again.  Is  that  your  wish  ?" 

She  nodded. 

"  And  I  need  not  hope  that  you  will  forgive  me  ?" 

"  No,"  she  said,  quite  gently ;  "  I  think  that  I  can  never  do 
that." 

He  gazed  at  her  a  moment  in  silence,  as  one  might  gaze  at 
a  dead  face  before  the  black  earth  shuts  it  away  forever.  It 
was  by  the  open  grave  of  his  love  that  he  was  standing.  "  Nev- 
er ?"  he  repeated,  in  the  voice  of  one  who  is  dreaming.  "  Never 
is  a  long  word  !" 

41 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  ENEMIES   OF  SOCIETY 

THE  room  was  not  a  large  one,  and  it  was  crowded  with  ta- 
bles, around  which  men  were  sitting,  with  glasses  of  beer  before 
them.  The  air  was  thick  with  tobacco-smoke,  and  to  Yates, 
who  was  looking  in  through  the  doorway,  it  seemed  at  first  in- 
tolerable. He  was  half  inclined  to  go  away,  but  just  then  one 
of  the  waiters  beckoned  him  to  a  vacant  seat,  and  so  he  made 
his  way  thither,  nodding  at  one  or  two  familiar  faces  as  he  sank 
into  it.  lie  felt  that  it  was  absurd  in  him  to  come,  considering 
that  he  had  resolved  to  have  no  more  to  do  with  Baretta  and 
his  friends.  But  he  was  in  the  mood  to  welcome  anything  that 
promised  even  a  moderate  degree  of  diversion. 

Baretta  had  not  yet  arrived.  Indeed,  he  often  stayed  away 
from  these  gatherings.  He  felt  that  a  lot  of  men  drinking  beer 
in  the  back  room  of  an  Eliot  Street  saloon  would  never  accom- 
plish the  great  ends  which  he  was  seeking,  or  get  beyond  a  vague 
expression  of  their  individual  grievances.  He  had  often  sug- 
gested this  view  of  the  matter  to  his  friend  and  teacher,  the 
Rev.  Henry  Ditton,  and  had  been  told  by  him  that  you  must 
take  men  as  you  find  them,  and  that  there  was  no  knowing  when 
the  truth  might  strike  home.  Ditton  was  already  in  the  room. 
He  stood  in  one  corner,  talking  with  Stephen  Luck,  the  labour 
agitator.  He  was  an  impressive  figure,  even  in  the  shabby  black 
coat  which  he  wore  tightly  buttoned  across  his  chest,  the  limp 
and  not  too  spotless  collar,  the  greasy  white  tie,  the  voluminous 
black  trousers  bagging  at  the  knees  and  frayed  at  the  bottom, 
the  patched  shoes  guiltless  of  blacking.  His  face  was  furrowed 
and  worn,  a  three  days'  stubble  of  beard  covered  his  chin,  and  his 

42 


keen  gray  eyes  peered  out  from  their  penthouse  lid  of  shaggy 
brows.  He  afforded  a  striking  contrast  to  Luck,  who  was  fat, 
red-faced,  red-haired,  and  indescribably  vulgar. 

"  Phwat  are  yous  doin'  here  ?"  said  a  voice  in  Philip's  ear. 

The  young  man  looked  up  sharply  at  this  offensive  inquiry. 
An  Irishman  with  a  hard,  square  face  and  a  curiously  mottled 
complexion  had  taken  a  seat  beside  him,  and  was  staring  at 
him  with  a  look  that  seemed  aggressively  impertinent. 

."I  don't  know  that  it  is  any  concern  of  yours,"  answered 
Philip,  coolly. 

"  Ain't  it,  now !  I'm  a  working-man,  an'  this  is  a  working- 
man's  club,  and  we  don't  want  any  gintlemen  about  prying  into 
what  we're  after  doin'.  See  ?" 

"  Look  here,  my  friend,  I  advise  you  to  keep  a  civil  tongue 
in  your  head."  Philip  took  up  the  glass  of  beer  which  the 
waiter  had  placed  before  him,  and  drank  off  a  part  of  the  con- 
tents. "  This  isn't  the  first  time  I've  been  here,  but  I  don't  re- 
member seeing  you  before." 

"  Shure,  yer  honour,  I  meant  no  offinse,"  said  the  man,  with 
an  obsequiousness  which  was  not  especially  ingratiating.  "  May- 
be ye're  some  friend  of  Mr.  Baretta's.  It's  him  that  got  me  to 
come." 

This  fact  seemed  to  Philip  to  need  no  comment,  and  conse- 
quently he  made  none. 

"  It's  Mr.  Baretta  who's  the  great  orator.  Them  f urriners 
mostly  are,  though  I'm  dommed  if  I'd  trust  one  of  'em.  I 
worked  with  some  dagoes  on  the  railroad  once,  when  I  was  out 
of  a  job  at  my  trade,  and  ivery  son  of  a  gun  among  'em  carried 
a  big  knife.  They  don't  fight  fair  wid  their  fists — or  wid  a 
good  club." 

"  I  don't  think  Mr.  Baretta  carries  a  knife." 

"  Who  knows  ?"  asked  the  other,  shaking  his  head,  solemnly. 
"It  wasn't  whiskey  ye  were  goin'  to  send  for,  was  it, to  cile- 
brate  this  j'yous  meetin' — was  it,  yer  honour  ?" 

"  Oh,  well,  whiskey  let  it  be,  then,"  said  Philip,  good  -  nat- 
uredly. 

"  Thank  ye.  To  pay  for  the  drinks  is  the  mark  of  a  true 
gintleman.  It's  too  bad  Mr.  Baretta  isn't  here  to  jine  us,  though 

43 


it's  a  dom  proud  one  he  is ;  he'll  live  in  a  man's  house  for  years, 
an'  niver  once  be  social  like,  except,"  added  the  man,  frowning, 
"  with  them  he'd  better  lave  alone." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  Mr.  Barctta  lives  in  your  house  ?" 

"  He  does  that ;  quare  for  a  swell  like  him,  ain't  it  1  But 
Peter  Dolan  don't  kape  him  there.  Dom  him  !"  cried  Mr.  Do- 
Ian,  savagely.  "  I'd  like  to  pitch  him  into  the  strate  to-morrer." 

"  I  suppose,"  observed  Philip,  "  the  fact  that  he  pays  his  rent 
restrains  your  ardour." 

"  Hint !"  exclaimed  Dolan,  after  gulping  down  the  whiskey 
and  wiping  his  mouth  upon  his  sleeve.  "  Do  ye  suppose  I  don't 
care  more  for  my  gyurl  than  for  the  dirty  rint  ?  It's  him  that's 
puttin'  all  sorts  of  notions  into  her  head  by  makin'  up  to  her, 
and  pretendin'  to  be  a  gintleman." 

Knowing  little  or  nothing  of  Baretta's  manner  of  living — he 
had  spoken  vaguely  of  a  room  at  the  South  End  once  or  twice 
— this  revelation  of  his  landlord's  sentiments  regarding  him 
was  in  the  nature  of  a  surprise  to  Yates.  But  if  the  allusions 
to  the  daughter  stirred  his  curiosity,  he  had  no  wish  to  obtain 
any  further  information  from  this  source. 

"  Mr.  Ditton  is  going  to  speak,"  he  said,  presently. 

"  Who's  he  ?     The  feller  standin'  on  the  chair  ?"' 

"Yes;  listen." 

Ditton  had  rapped  the  rather  noisy  crowd  to  order  by  pound- 
ing on  the  table  with  a  stick,  and  from  the  eminence  which  he 
had  mounted  he  now  addressed  them. 

"  As  I  was  on  my  way  hither  to-night,  my  friends,"  he  be- 
gan, "  I  passed  a  church.  The  doors  were  open,  and  they  w«re 
evidently  holding  services  inside.  I  tell  you,  it  made  me  sick 
at  heart  to  think  of  all  that  idle  mummery.  I  said  to  myself 
that  the  man  who  preaches  religion  is  a  dangerous  man. 
'  Why  ?'  you  ask.  '  Isn't  religion  what  we  were  taught  at  our 
mother's  knee  ?  Isn't  it  what  we  teach  our  children  ?  Isn't  it 
what  we  shall  all  want  when  the  time  comes  for  us  to  die  ?'  I 
thought  so  once.  Yes,  my  friends,  I  was  a  parson,  apd  I  went 
around  with  a  sanctimonious  face  preaching  hell  and  damna- 
tion to  those  who  didn't  agree  with  me.  It's  the  truth — that 
was  just  what  I  did.  But  now  I  see  how  wrong  I  was,  and  I 

44 


tell  you — and  I  want  you  all  to  remember  it — that  the  man  who 
preaches  religion  to  you  is  your  worst  enemy.  Why  ?  Because 
religion  leads  to  temperance.  *  Ah  !'  you  will  say, '  temperance 
is  a  good  thing.'  I  deny  it.  Now  don't  misunderstand  me  ;  I 
don't  mean  that  you  ought  to  get  drunk." 

.  "  Be  jabers !  some  of  us  will,"  cried  a  voice  from  the  unknown 
murky  depths  of  smoke  that  surrounded  the  speaker. 

"  No,  my  friend,  no  ;  I  hope  you'll  have  more  sense.  Drink 
all  the  beer  you  want,  but  don't  put  into  your  stomach  a  lot  of 
bad  whiskey  and  go  home  and  beat  your  wife.  When  I  say 
temperance  is  a  bad  thing  I  mean  that  the  man  who  never  drinks 
at  all  gets  to  saving  up  money.  Well,  what  is  saving  up  money  ? 
It's  economy,  isn't  it  ?  And  when  a  man  tries  to  be  economical, 
what  does  he  become  ?  Why,  industrious,  don't  he?  '  Oh  yes,' 
you  say, '  but  industry  is  a  good  thing.  Every  step  in  human 
progress  has  been  gained  by  industry.'  Are  you  so  sure  of 
that?  Is  what  these  rich  employers  of  yours  call  over-produc- 
tion— is  that  progress  ?  Over-production  !  It's  a  nice  word ;  it 
means  shutting  down  in  the  mills  and  the  shops,  so  that  they 
can  be  drawing  interest  from  their  money  instead  of  paying  it 
out  to  you — so  that  they  can  buy  houses  and  charge  you  high 
rents  for  living  in  them.  Yes,  perhaps  it  is  progress — towards 
the  workhouse  !" 

Here  a  loud  stamping  and  clicking  of  glasses  greeted  Mr. 
Ditton's  eloquence. 

" Over-production!  The  working-man's  enemy  and  the  poor 
man's  curse !  If  that's  the  kind  of  progress  you  want,  God 
help  you  !" 

"  He's  right !"  exclaimed  Dolan,  looking  first  at  Yates  and 
then  at  his  empty  glass.  "There's  to  be  a  shut-down  at  the 
works  next  wake,  bad  cess  to  'em.  An'  what's  a  poor  man  to 
do  then?" 

"  Drink  less  whiskey,"  answered  Philip,  unsympathetically. 
"  Ah,  that  fat,  red-headed  fellow  is  going  to  speak." 

Luck  had  mounted  the  chair  in  Ditton's  place,  and  now 
launched  forth  into  an  angry  tirade  against  the  bloated  capital- 
ists who  were  sucking  the  life-blood  of  the  poor.  It  was  a  far 
more  fiery  harangue  than  Ditton's  had  been,  and  it  aroused  the 

45 


audience  to  greater  enthusiasm.  "  This  nation,"  he  cried,  after 
he  had  excoriated  certain  local  firms,  "  has  been  brought  by  the 
men  who  call  themselves  your  masters  to  the  verge  of  moral, 
political,  and  material  ruin.  Corruption  dominates  the  ballot- 
box,  runs  riot  in  Congress,  elects  Presidents,  and  makes  Judges. 
The  gold-bugs  of  Wall  Street  have  the  machinery  of  govern- 
ment by  the  throat — yes,"  he  added,  with  a  touch  of  pride  in 
this  effective  metaphor,  "  by  the  throat.  And  the  people — you 
and  me,  all  of  us — are  ground  to  dust  beneath  the  iron  heel  of 
monopoly.  What  do  we  work  for  ?  What  becomes  of  the  toil 
of  millions  ?  It's  stolen — stolen  to  build  up  colossal  fortunes, 
such  as  the  world  has  never  seen  before ;  and  the  owners  of 
them  despise  us  and  scoff  at  liberty.  Some  of  you  came  from 
a  land  which  British  misgovernment  has  made  a  hell  upon 
earth" — here  he  had  to  pause  until  the  shouts  and  cheers  had 
died  away — "  some  of  you  came  from  a  country  where  an  enor- 
mous standing  army  swallows  up  the  flower  of  the  young  men ; 
but  what  is  this  New  World,  where  you  thought  every  man  had 
a  chance  ?  There  are  two  classes  to  be  found  here — paupers 
and  millionaires.  I  guess  there  ain't  many  of  the  millionaires 
here  to-night." 

"Ach,  nein  !"  cried  a  raucous  German  voice.  "  Ve  vas  none 
of  us  dose  tings." 

"  My  friend  is  right,"  said  Luck,  mopping  his  brow  with  a 
dirty  handkerchief.  "  Why  is  it  ?  I  will  tell  you — it  is  because 
the  national  power  to  create  money  is  used  to  enrich  bondhold- 
ers ;  because  the  supply  of  currency  is  abridged  to  fatten  usurers, 
to  bankrupt  enterprise,  and  to  enslave  industry.  We're  just  as 
badly  off  here  as  they  are  in  Europe.  A  vast  conspiracy  against 
mankind  has  been  organized  on  two  continents,  and  is  taking 
possession  of  the  world.  It  must  be  met  and  overthrown.  The 
working-man  has  the  power ;  let  him  use  it.  Let  him  combine 
everywhere  to  protect  his  own  interests,  by  peaceable  means  if 
possible,  by  force  if  necessary.  Let  no  one  shrink  from  the 
conflict.  You  and  I  can  secure  our  children's  heritage,  even  if 
we  baptize  the  soil  of  our  country  with  our  own  blood." 

"  Good !  You're  right,  Steve  !"  came  from  a  dozen  throats 
in  answer  to  this  appeal. 

46 


"And  remember  this,  my  friends — we've  got  to  fight  this 
battle  alone.  The  newspapers  are  subsidized  —  there's  a  big 
capitalist  at  the  elbow  of  every  editor.  The  men  you  send  to 
the  City  Hall  and  the  State  House  and  to  Washington  are 
against  you — they've  been  bought  up  by  the  men  who  build 
fine  houses  on  Commonwealth  Avenue — ah !  isn't  that  a  satirical 
name  for  the  place  where  the  millionaires  live  ?  They  don't 
want  you  to  organize  for  self-protection — they  don't  want  the 
pauper  labour  of  the  Old  World  shut  out.  Not  they  !  What  do 
they  want  ?  They  want  to  make  you  slaves  !" 

Beer  and  eloquence  had  by  this  time  combined  to  rouse  the 
company  to  a  high  pitch  of  enthusiasm,  and  in  the  din  which 
followed  the  further  remarks  of  the  speaker  were  heard  imper- 
fectly by  Philip  in  his  corner.  Dolan,  seeing  that  no  more 
whiskey  was  forthcoming,  had  moved  to  another  table.  Philip 
himself,  more  exasperated  than  amused  by  the  wild  harangues 
to  which  he  had  been  listening,  and  more  than  ever  convinced 
of  the  absurdity  of  his  position,  was  making  up  his  mind  to 
go,  when  his  eye  caught  that  of  Baretta,  who  had  just  entered, 
and  who  was  edging  his  way  through  the  crowd  towards 
him.  Philip  had  no  special  desire  to  see  the  young  man  just 
then,  but  he  felt  that  it  would  be  rudeness  on  his  part  to  avoid 
him. 

"  I  didn't  suppose  you  would  be  here  to-night,"  Baretta  said, 
after  they  had  shaken  hands. 

"  Oh,  you  can  never  count  upon  my  movements,"  was  the 
answer.  "  I  have  been  rewarded  by  a  good  deal  of  fiery  elo- 
quence from  that  red-headed  man  who's  trying  to  make  himself 
heard  above  this  infernal  din." 

"  You  don't  like  him,  then.  Well,  he's  a  good  deal  of  a  hum- 
bug. His  name  is  Luck — Stephen  Luck.  He  is  a  walking  del- 
egate for  some  organization  or  other,  but  he  does  more  talking 
than  walking.  It's  fellows  of  that  sort  who  injure  the  move- 
ment." 

"  I  take  it,  then,  that  you  don't  agree  with  all  the  rot  about 
bloated  capitalists  and  subsidized  newspapers." 

"  Well,  no — only  up  to  a  certain  point.  But  it  isn't  his  ideas 
to  which  I  object  so  much  as  the  character  of  the  man.  He  the 

47 


working-man's  friend !  He  takes  mighty  good  pains  to  be  well 
paid  for  his  friendship — that's  all  I  can  say.  It's  a  great  thing 
to  fight  society  when  you  drink  champagne  and  smoke  Ha- 
vanas,  and  drive  about  in  carriages." 

"  Oh,  that's  the  kind  of  a  reformer  he  is,  eh  ?"  laughed  Yates. 
"  Well,  one  might  readily  suspect  as  much." 

"  Ditton,  now,"  went  on  Baretta,  "  he's  earnest — he's  sincere. 
I  believe,  Yates,  that  he's  poorer  to-day  than  I  am,  and  Heaven 
knows  that's  saying  a  good  deal.  But  I  keep  a  roof  over  my 
head,  though  a  poor  one,  while  he  —  why,  I've  known  him  to 
wander  about  the  streets  all  night  because  he  didn't  have  the 
money  in  his  pocket  to  pay  for  a  night's  lodging.  I  think  I'm 
sincere,  but  I  couldn't  quite  go  that.  You  see,  he  gets  money 
enough  —  we  chip  in  money  all  round  at  these  meetings,  and 
when  he  preaches  on  the  Common  he  takes  up  a  collection — but 
the  first  case  of  misery  he  comes  across,  why  it's  all  gone. 
That's  the  kind  of  man  he  is."  And  there  was  a  note  of  genu- 
ine admiration  in  Baretta's  voice  as  he  said  it. 

"Ah,  yes — one  can  respect  a  man  when  he  gives  up  every- 
thing to  an  idea.  Speaking  of  a  roof  over  your  head,  is  that 
person — see,  at  the  second  table — really  your  landlord  ?  That 
is  what  he  has  been  telling  me." 

Baretta  coloured,  and  hesitated  a  moment  before  replying. 
"Oh — ah — you  mean  Dolan.  Landlord!  Well,  that's  a  big 
word  for  a  man  who  rents  you  a  single  room  in  his  house.  I 
suppose  you  are  disgusted  to  think  of  associating  with  one  who 
lives  in  such  quarters." 

"  Didn't  you  just  hear  me  say  what  I  thought  of  men  who 
can  make  great  sacrifices  ?" 

"  Thanks  !"  exclaimed  the  other,  rather  bitterly.  "  I  appre- 
ciate the  compliment."  He  looked  frowningly  at  the  table 
for  a  moment ;  then  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  Yates's  face.  "  What 
did  Dolan  have  to  say  about  me  ?"  he  asked. 

'  Surely,  you  cannot  expect  me  to  betray  any  confidences 
which  a  gentleman  may  have  reposed  in  me." 

"  Come,  Yates,  this  is  no  jest  with  me.  I  know  the  fellow 
dislikes  me— if  it  wasn't  for  his  poor  wife  I  would  cut  the  place 
to-morrow." 

48 


"  All  I  can  say  is,"  observed  Philip,  calmly,  "  that  your  dislike 
for  Mr.  Dolan  seemed  to  be  fully  reciprocated." 

"  Then  he  did  talk  about  me  !"  Baretta  frowned  again  and 
bit  his  lips.  "  See  here,  Yates,"  he  began,  suddenly.  Then  he 
paused  in  an  embarrassed  way,  as  if  he  did  not  know  exactly 
how  to  go  on. 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Philip,  with  a  look  of  surprise,  "  if  you  are 
really  so  much  concerned  to  learn  the  tenour  of  Dolan's  re- 
marks, I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  they  were  brief  and 
pointed,  and  seemed  to  be  based  upon  the  theory  that  you  were 
'  putting  notions  into  the  head  of  his  gyurl ' — doubtless  a  mis- 
conception on  his  part." 

"  Dolan  is  a  fool !  That  comes  of  taking  an  interest  in  peo- 
ple— of  trying  to  do  them  a  kindness." 

"  You  pay  the  penalty  of  being  too  attractive  to  the  gentler 
sex,  Baretta." 

"  At  any  rate,"  said  Baretta,  angrily,  "  if  I  know  a  person  I 
don't  try  to  deny  it." 

"  Indeed !  And  may  I  ask  you  what  precise  bearing  that 
remark  has  upon  the  subject  of  our  conversation  ?" 

"  You  know  very  well  what  I  mean.  Other  people  than  your- 
self walk  in  Commonwealth  Avenue." 

"  Oh  !"  The  colour  mounted  to  Philip's  face,  but  he  pre- 
served his  impassive  attitude.  "  It  seems  to  me,  Baretta,  if  you 
will  permit  me  to  say  so,  that  you  are  rather  impertinent." 

"  How  dare  you  talk  to  me  like  that  ?"  cried  the  other,  with 
flashing  eyes. 

"  Let  me  give  you  a  piece  of  advice — you  seem  to  be  in  need 
of  a  judicious  friend.  '  Dare '  is  an  ugly  way  to  put  it.  Your 
Socialistic  dispensation  hasn't  come  yet.  You  had  better  keep 
your  temper." 

Baretta  glanced  at  him  in  a  fashion  which,  oddly  enough, 
reminded  Philip  of  Dolan's  theory  that  every  foreigner  carried 
a  knife.  His  lips  were  white  with  vindictive  passion,  and  his 
nostrils  expanded  like  those  of  a  frantic  horse.  "  I'll  pay  you 
out  for  this  yet !  You  are  in  the  conspiracy  against  me  with 
the  rest.  You  lied  to  me  when  you  said  you  didn't  know  Miss 
Lawrence,  and  then  you  try  to  prejudice  her  against  me." 
B  49 


"  I  don't  know  whether  it  will  be  more  charitable  to  conclude 
that  you  are  drunk  or  that  you  are  crazy,"  said  Yates. 

Baretta's  anger  seemed  to  die  away  as  suddenly  as  it  had 
arisen.  "  I  say,  Mr.  Yates,"  he  began,  in  an  embarrassed  way, 
"  I  wish  you  would  forget  all  this.  I — I  hardly  knew  what  I  was 
saying.  But  when  you  told  me  that  you  did  not  know  Miss 
Lawrence,  and  when  I  saw  you  talking  to  her  the  other  after- 
noon, why,  of  course,  I — I — " 

"  It  hardly  strikes  me  as  necessary  to  drag  her  name  into  this 
conversation.  Since,  however,  you  have  brought  up  the  subject, 
I  will  tell  you  frankly  that  the  lady  in  question  and  I  are — are 
not  on  good  terms,  and  that  I  was  perfectly  justified  in  telling 
you  we  were  strangers.  You  will  greatly  oblige  me  by  not  re- 
ferring to  this  again." 

"  Oh,  of  course — just  as  you  like."  He  glanced  about  him, 
and  saw  that  Luck  was  no  longer  speaking.  "  If  you  will  excuse 
me,  I  will  see  what  Mr.  Ditton  proposes  to  do  next."  He  started 
to  go,  then  turned  and  addressed  Yates  again.  "  I  really  hope 
that  you'll  overlook  what  you  call  my  impertinence." 

"  Let  us  say  no  more  about  it,  Baretta.  I  think  I  must  be 
going  now.  I  dare  say  I  shall  see  you  again  very  soon.  Good- 
night." 

Baretta  walked  away  with  only  a  nod.  He  was  enraged  with 
himself  for  having  given  way  to  such  an  outburst  of  anger,  and 
he  was  also  furious  to  think  that  Yates  should  have  undertaken 
to  rebuke  him  for  it.  His  plea  that  he  must  speak  with  Ditton 
was  of  course  only  an  excuse  for  escaping  from  an  unpleasant 
situation.  He  saw  that  he  had  blundered  in  alluding  to  Miss 
Lawrence  at  all,  and  especially  in  letting  Yates  know  that  he  had 
witnessed  their  meeting — or  rather  their  parting — the  afternoon 
before.  It  was  his  luck  always  to  be  making  mistakes  of  this 
sort.  Intercourse  with  people  who  doubtless  thought  themselves 
better  than  he  seemed  to  be  full  of  pitfalls.  He  knew,  of  course, 
that  they  were  not  better — that  few  of  them  were  so  clever  or  of 
so  much  consequence  to  the  world.  But  the  aggravating  feature 
of  the  situation  was  that  they  took  their  own  superiority  for 
granted  with  the  utmost  calmness,  and  that  he,  when  he  was  with 
them,  found  himself  tacitly  admitting  it.  He  was  vexed  now 

60 


because  he  had  apologized  to  Yates  ;  and  yet  somehow  an  apology 
had  seemed  the  most  natural  thing  under  the  circumstances,  not- 
withstanding the  fact  that  justice  was  on  his  side.  Oh  yes — 
Yates  was  like  the  rest  in  scoffing  at  him,  in  trying  to  keep  him 
down  !  Fortunately  he  had  talents  which  would  enable  him  to 
rise  in  spite  of  everything.  Perhaps  some  day  Miss  Lawrence 
would  be  proud  of  his  acquaintance.  He  saw  himself  in  imagi- 
nation the  object  of  her  shy  and  silent  admiration,  and  he  for- 
got for  the  moment  the  fumes  of  bad  tobacco,  the  odour  of  stale 
beer,  and  the  raucous  voices  around  him. 

"  There's  going  to  be  trouble  over  at  the  South  Boston  works," 
said  Ditton,  as  Baretta  came  up.  "  Luck  has  been  telling  me 
about  it." 

"  Well,  Luck  ought  to  know,"  remarked  the  young  man. 
"  He's  probably  responsible  for  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  demanded  the  agitator,  excit- 
edly. "  Do  you  think  I  make  the  trouble  ?" 

"  You  ?  Oh,  I  bring  no  accusations  ;  if  the  coat  fits  I  suppose 
you  may  put  it  on." 

"  See  here,  Baretta,"  cried  Luck,  shaking  his  pudgy  fist,  "you'll 
get  into  trouble  if  you  ain't  careful." 

"  If  you  think  I'm  afraid  of  you,  my  good  man,  you're  might- 
ily mistaken.  All  I  say  is  that  a  strike  isn't  going  to  do  us  a 
particle  of  good.  That  way  of  going  to  work  was  shown  to  be 
a  failure  long  ago." 

"  You  know  an  awful  pile,  you  do,"  sneered  Luck. 

"  Come,  come  !"  interposed  Ditton.  "  We'll  have  no  quarrel- 
ling. That  isn't  the  way  to  succeed,  at  any  rate.  If  the  men 
are  not  getting  their  rights,  why,  they  must  demand  them,  that's 
all.  It's  better  to  strike  than  to  submit  tamely  to  injury  and 
oppression." 

"  That's  all  very  fine,"  argued  Baretta.  "  But  what  is  to  be- 
come of  the  families  of  the  men  meantime  ?"  He  glanced  about 
the  room,  and  his  eye  fell  upon  Dolan,  who  was  just  then  swal- 
lowing another  drink  of  whiskey.  "  Take  the  case  of  fellows 
like  Dolan,  now,"  he  went  on.  "  Just  as  soon  as  they're  out  of 
work  they'll  spend  all  their  time  getting  drunk,  instead  of  a  part 
of  it." 

61 


"  Well,  you'll  have  to  look  out  for  his  family,"  said  Luck.  "  I 
guess  you  do  that  with  some  members  of  it  now." 

"  You're  a  damned  dirty  loafer,  Luck — that's  what  you  are," 
said  Baretta.  Then  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  away,  re- 
gardless of  the  volley  of  oaths  that  followed  him. 

52 


CHAPTER  VI 
POOR    MAUD 

THE  home  of  the  Dolan  family  was  not  an  enlivening  place  at 
any  time,  and  on  a  rainy  afternoon  in  spring  it  seemed  particu- 
larly dismal.  From  the  window  of  the  front  room  on  the  first 
floor,  where  Maud  was  sitting  with  her  sewing,  the  outlook  was 
not  inviting.  The  only  living  thing  in  sight  was  a  shivering  cat, 
who  cowered  close  to  the  grating  of  a  cellar  window  opposite. 
Through  the  dingy  panes  of  the  blank  row  of  houses  not  a  single 
face  peered,  and  all  the  doors  with  the  greasy  imprints  of  thou- 
sands of  fingers  about  the  latches  were  tightly  closed  against  the 
storm.  In  the  roadway  the  dust  and  refuse  characteristic  of 
Arragon  Street  in  pleasant  weather.had  been  turned  by  the  cease- 
lessly falling  drops  into  an  oily  black  mixture,  thick  and  slab,  like 
the  ingredients  of  the  witches'  caldron. 

Maud  sewed  on  with  a  discontented  scowl.  She  had  never 
taken  things  easily,  as  the  other  children  did,  and  of  late  her  cir- 
cumstances had  been  peculiarly  hateful  to  her.  She  felt  that 
she  disliked  her  father  and  despised  her  mother.  This  might  be 
very  wicked ;  but  it  was  the  truth,  and  what  was  the  good  of 
pretending  ?  She  was  sure  that  the  one  had  done,  and  the  other 
could  do,  nothing  for  her.  When  a  man  who  might  have  earned 
good  wages,  and  made  a  home  for  his  children  in  some  neat  cot- 
tage out  of  the  city,  threw  away  his  money  in  drink  and  com- 
pelled them  to  live  in  a  squalid  street  in  the  slums,  he  forfeited 
all  right  to  respect  or  affection  even  from  those  nearest  to  him. 
As  for  her  mother,  she  was  honest  and  kind-hearted,  to  be  sure, 
but  also  stupid  and  ignorant,  and  no  companion  for  a  girl  who 
had  been  half-way  through  the  high -school.  Besides,  wasn't 

53 


she  vicariously  to  blame,  as  it  were,  for  marrying  such  a  hus- 
band ?  Maud  Dolan  did  not  argue  it  out  with  herself  precisely 
in  this  way,  but  feelings  of  this  nature  were  at  the  bottom  of 
her  dissatisfaction  with  her  environment.  Sometimes  she  felt 
that  she  must  get  away  from  Arragon  Street  at  any  cost.  But 
just  at  present  no  feasible  method  of  escape  offered  itself.  She 
had  figured  out  her  resources  many  a  time,  but  had  never  been 
able  to  satisfy  herself  that  they  would  warrant  her  in  leaving 
home  for  good.  Nothing  could  be  gained,  certainly,  by  leaving 
a  place  where,  after  all,  she  had  the  freedom  of  a  house,  to  coop 
herself  up  in  some  wretched  stuffy  room  in  a  neighbourhood 
scarcely  more  agreeable.  She  wanted  to  live  in  a  "  genteel " 
boarding-house  —  this  was  the  adjective  which  expressed  her 
social  aspirations — where  the  quality  alike  of  the  food  and  of 
the  grammar  was  better  than  in  Arragon  Street,  and  where  there 
were  nice  young  men  who  did  not  confound  the  functions  of 
knife  and  fork,  or  sit  about  in  their  shirt-sleeves  with  unbut- 
toned waistcoats.  She  had  seen  such  young  men  behind  the 
counter  at  Jackson  &  Moore's.  "  I  wonder  how  he  can  stand 
it,"  she  murmured,  breaking  her  thread  with  a  jerk. 

Perhaps  it  is  needless  to  add  that  "  he  "  referred  to  Baretta. 
The  girl  would  have  denied  indignantly  an  accusation  that  she 
cared  for  him  more  than  for  another.  But  her  fancy  had  ideal- 
ized him  sufficiently  to  make  his  approval  a  matter  of  some  mo- 
ment. When  she  put  on  a  new  gown,  which  was  rarely  enough, 
or  tied  a  fresh  knot  of  ribbon  at  her  throat,  it  was  with  a  tacit 
hope  that  he  would  observe  how  becoming  it  was.  To  these 
intangible  coquetries,  however,  Baretta  had  not  been  very  re- 
sponsive, although  his  manner  to  her  bore  the  stamp  of  a  chival- 
rous tenderness — real  or  assumed — which  was  about  as  danger- 
ous as  outspoken  adoration.  Thus  Maud  came  to  feel  that  their 
lodger  was  of  a  finer  clay  than  the  coarse  and  commonplace  young 
fellows  whom  she  knew,  and  whose  conversation  was  mostly  slang 
and  chaff.  She  was  regarded  by  these,  and  by  others  who  would 
naturally  have  been  her  intimates,  as  "  stuck  up  " — the  sort  of 
girl,  as  one  of  them  said,  who  would  just  as  likely  as  not  slap 
your  face  if  you  hugged  her.  Indeed,  Maud  despised  the  amor- 
ous pleasantries  that  marked  social  intercourse  in  Arragon  Street. 

54 


Perhaps  it  was  pride  rather  than  delicacy  that  influenced  her. 
Baretta,  it  will  be  remembered,  had  on  several  occasions  thought 
that  she  would  not  have  resented  a  kiss  from  him.  But  then  he 
was  not  a  red-faced  young  Irishman  with  a  three-days'  growth 
of  bristling  beard,  and  he  did  not  eat  onions  and  indulge  in  daily 
potations  of  whiskey.  Her  compliance  on  this  point,  however, 
had  not  been  put  to  the  test.  She  simply  felt  that  she  had  a 
friend  in  this  young  man,  and  that  life  would  be  inexpressibly 
more  dreary  than  it  was  if  she  were  separated  from  him.  Again 
and  again  she  had  wondered  why  he  stayed.  With  his  aspira- 
tions for  the  regeneration  of  society  she  had  little  sympathy.  He 
had  never  talked  to  her  very  freely  about  them,  and  in  any  case 
she  might  not  have  understood  them.  She  knew  what  a  terrible 
thing  it  was  to  be  poor ;  but  she  pitied  not  so  much  the  wretched- 
ness and  misery  around  her  as  herself  for  being  involved  in  them. 
If  she  could  free  herself  from  her  present  life  she  would  not  have 
much  time  for  thinking  of  those  who  had  been  left  behind. 

The  dull  afternoon  waned  as  Maud  mused  and  sewed.  Just 
as  the  gathering  dusk  warned  her  to  put  aside  her  work,  she 
heard  the  front  door  open,  and  then  a  step  on  the  stairs  which 
she  recognized  as  Baretta's.  She  rose  and  went  to  the  passage 
— now  almost  as  black  as  night — and  stood  there  a  moment  irres- 
olutely. "  Yes — I  will !"  she  murmured  at  last,  defiantly.  "  I 
must  talk  to  some  one."  Then  she  glided  up  the  narrow  flight 
and  rapped  lightly  on  Baretta's  door. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Maud — is  it  you  ?"  His  manner  betrayed  confu- 
sion, and  as  he  threw  open  the  door  the  girl  speculated  vaguely 
as  to  the  cause  of  it.  In  another  moment  her  quick  eye  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  an  open  valise  on  one  chair  and  a  number  of 
books  piled  up  on  another. 

"  You  are  going  away  ?"  she  cried,  starting  back  with  an  irre- 
pressible look  of  dismay. 

"  Why  should  you  care  for  that  ?"  asked  Baretta.  "  Why 
should  any  one  care  ?"  he  added,  bitterly. 

Maud  felt  the  hot  tears  pressing  against  her  lids.  But,  no — 
she  would  not  cry  and  make  a  fool  of  herself  !  Why,  indeed, 
should  she  care  ?  "  I'm  not  good  at  guessing  conundrums,  Mr. 
Baretta,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh. 

55 


The  retort  touched  the  young  man's  vanity  to  the  quick. 
"  You  have  managed  to  answer  my  question  very  effectually,  at 
any  rate,"  he  remarked,  with  an  assumption  of  indifference  which 
the  sudden  flood  of  colour  in  his  face  belied.  "  But  I  beg  your 
pardon — will  you  come  in  ?" 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  like  that — I  can't  bear  it !"  cried  the  girl,  with 
a  sob.  And  now  a  big  tear  rolled  slowly  down  her  cheek.  "  You 
know  how  much  your  going  will  be  to  me.  I  suppose  you'll 
despise  me  for  saying  so,  but — I  don't  mind  that  —  or  any- 
thing." 

"  My  dear  Maud !"  he  said,  very  gently,  with  a  sudden  revul- 
sion of  feeling.  He  took  her  hand  and  drew  her  inside  the  door. 
"  I  didn't  mean  to  speak  harshly  ;  I  know  I  have  a  friend  in 
you.  It  is  that  which  makes  me  sorry  to  go." 

"  Yes — but  why  do  you  go  ?"  She  took  out  her  handkerchief 
and  pressed  it  to  her  telltale  eyes.  "  What  a  fool  I  am  !"  she 
cried,  smiling  at  him  tremulously. 

"  What  a  brute  I  am  !"  He  turned  his  back  abruptly  and 
walked  to  the  window.  He  felt  strangely  moved  by  her  emotion, 
as  well  as  fearful  of  its  possible  consequences. 

"  You  haven't  told  me  what  is  the  matter,"  said  Maud,  after  a 
moment  *of  silence.  "  Have  I  annoyed  you  by  asking  ?" 

Baretta  crossed  the  room  again.  "  Won't  you  sit  down  ?"  he 
asked. 

"  No,  no  ;  I  mustn't  stay  but  a  moment." 

"  I  wish  people  would  mind  their  own  business,"  the  young 
man  cried,  savagely,  after  another  pause.  "  No — don't  think  I 
mean  you.  But  there  has  been  something  said  that  has  made 
it  unpleasant  for  me  to  stay." 

"  Who  said  it  ?" 

"  Well,  never  mind  that.  I  had  some  words  last  night  with 
your  father,  and — " 

"  Oh  yes  !"  interrupted  the  girl,  angrily.  "  I  see  it  all  now. 
He  has  insulted  you,  and  said  things  you  can't  forgive,  and  so — 
and  so — " 

"Perhaps  he  was  right.  We  won't  blame  any  one.  And 
don't  talk  as  if  we  were  parting  forever." 

"  It  is  much  the  same  thing.     What  is  the  use  of  trying  to 

56 


pretend  that  it  isn't  ?  And — and  all  will  be  so  different  here 
when  you  are  gone." 

She  looked  very  pretty  as  she  said  this,  and  Baretta  took  her 
hand  again.  "I  shall  see  you  often,"  he  said,  eagerly.  "  Sure- 
ly no  one  can  object  to  that." 

"  I  don't  care  ;  I  won't  stay  here  myself  much  longer.  I  am 
tired  of  it  all.  There's  no  good  in  living  if  you've  got  to  live 
like  this.  Oh,  Frank,  can't  you  help  me  to  go  away  ?" 

"  I  wish  I  could.     Don't  you  like  it  at  the  shop  ?" 

"  The  shop  !"  cried  Maud,  scornfully.  "  It's  the  shop  that 
keeps  me  here  just  like  a  slave.  Oh  yes,  to  go  in  the  morning 
and  sometimes  in  the  evening  to  sell  newspapers,  and  candy  to 
dirty  children,  and  make  out  the  bills  when  the  first  of  the 
month  comes  round,  and  then  have  a  miserable  three  dollars 
every  Saturday  night,  and  be  stared  at  by  rude  men,  and  per- 
haps insulted  coming  home  !  Oh,  that's  a  nice  life  for  a  girl, 
isn't  it,  Frank  ?" 

"  Damn  them  !"  cried  Baretta,  with  sudden  fury.  "  Damn  the 
rich  men  who  have  made  this  world  a  hell  on  earth  !  There — 
excuse  me — I  didn't  mean  to  say  that,"  he  added,  seeing  that 
she  had  shrunk  back,  and  was  regarding  him  with  some  alarm. 
"  But  when  I  think  of  the  terrible  injustice  to  which  society 
owes  its  very  existence — well,  we  must  all  have  patience  for  a 
little  longer.  They  have  been  conspiring  against  me,  too." 

"  Oh,  Frank,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Yes,  there's  Stephen  Luck — 'twas  he  made  the  trouble  be- 
tween me  and  your  father — and  Ditton — oh,  he'll  look  out  for 
himself,  I  warrant  you  !"  cried  the  young  man,  with  a  harsh 
laugh.  "  But  I  didn't  think  it  of  Yates — that  he  would  lie  to 
me  and  then  go  and  try  to  prejudice  her  against  me." 

The  only  part  of  this  tirade  that  was  intelligible  to  the  lis- 
tener was  the  feminine  pronoun.  "  Her  !  Who  do  you  mean 
by  her?" 

"  Nothing — no  one  at  all." 

"  As  if  you  expected  me  to  believe  that !" 

"  Well,  then — Mrs.  Chilton.     Are  you  any  wiser  now  ?" 

"  I  suppose  she's  one  of  the  swells,"  said  Maud,  doubtfully. 

"  I  mean  that  they're  jealous  of  me — that  they  don't  like  to 

57 


see  me  getting  ahead,  because  they're  afraid  of  my  ideas.  Mrs. 
Chilton  is  the  lady  who  asked  me  to  her  house  the  other  after- 
noon to  meet  a  lot  of  people." 

"  I  remember,"  said  Maud.  Baretta  had,  indeed,  told  her 
something  about  a  reception  to  which  he  had  been  invited,  and 
she  was  compelled  to  accept  this  explanation  of  his  sudden 
emotion  as  the  true  one.  Yet  she  could  not  rid  herself  of  the 
suspicion  that  it  was  not  Mrs.  Chilton  of  whom  he  was  think- 
ing when  he  let  slip  that  reference  to  "  her." 

After  this  there  was  a  moment  of  rather  awkward  silence  be- 
tween them.  Baretta  finally  broke  it  by  saying,  "  But  you  came 
to  see  me  about  something,  didn't  you,  Maud  ?" 

"  Oh,  never  mind  now,  Frank.  I  was  feeling  wretched  and 
miserable,  and  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  couldn't  stand  it  any 
longer,  and  that  I  must  find  work  to  do  that  would  take  me 
away  from  here.  But  if  you  are  leaving — well,  I  won't  trouble 
you  now." 

She  turned  to  go,  but  he  called  her  back.  "  Don't  say  that, 
Maud !"  he  cried.  "  I  want  so  much  to  do  all  I  can  for  you." 
He  walked  up  and  down  the  room  silently,  while  she  stood  there 
motionless,  one  hand  upon  her  heart  as  if  to  stay  its  violent 
beating.  Then  in  a  sudden  flash  of  passion  he  grasped  the 
valise  and  threw  it  upon  the  floor.  "  By  Heaven  !"  he  cried,  "  I 
swear  I  won't  go  as  long  as  you  want  me  to  stay  !" 

"  Oh,  Frank  !"  cried  the  girl,  catching  her  breath.  His  out- 
burst had  frightened  her  for  the  moment.  She  turned  to  him, 
holding  out  both  hands,  and  looking  at  him  with  eyes  that  were 
again  full  of  tears.  "  Oh,  Frank  !"  she  repeated,  softly,  "  how 
can  I  ever  thank  you  ?" 

Baretta  took  her  hands  and  drew  her  closer.  Then  he  bent 
down  and  kissed  her  full  upon  the  lips.  "  Oh,  Frank!"  she 
whispered  once  more,  colouring  to  the  roots  of  her  hair.  But 
she  did  not  repulse  him. 

"  It  is  a  promise,"  he  said,  gravely. 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened  below  and  a  heavy  footstep 
was  heard  thumping  on  the  stairs.  "  It's  father !"  Maud  said, 
under  her  breath,  clinging  to  him  in  a  frightened  way. 

"  He  must  not  find  you  here,"  said  Baretta,  gently  pushing 

58 


her  aside.  "  Go !"  He  followed  her  to  the  door,  and  then 
added,  in  a  louder  voice  :  "  Oh  yes,  Miss  Maud — thank  you  very 
much.  I  will  read  it  and  return  it  to  you  in  a  day  or  two." 

A  growling  sound  came  from  the  head  of  the  stairs  at  this 
juncture.  "  Phwat's  this  ?"  broke  in  the  voice  of  Dolan.  He 
seized  his  daughter  roughly  by  the  arm  as  she  was  hurrying  by. 
She  screamed  aloud,  more  in  fear  than  in  pain. 

"  How  dare  you  ?"  came  to  Baretta's  lips  involuntarily.  He 
had  stepped  over  the  threshold  and  was  now  facing  the  other 
two  in  the  narrow  passage. 

"  Dare,  is  it  ?"  cried  Dolan. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Baretta  !"  sobbed  Maud. 

"  Get  along  down-stairs  wid  ye  !"  Dolan  released  her  with  a 
push  that  sent  her  reeling  against  the  wall.  "  I'll  settle  with 
this  dom  villain." 

But  Baretta,  thinking  he  had  struck  the  girl,  leaped  forward 
in  blind  fury,  letting  out  right  and  left.  He  had  no  great 
physical  prowess,  and  the  big  Irishman,  who  was  sober  enough 
just  now,  could  have  picked  him  up  bodily  and  thrown  him  out 
of  the  window  if  he  had  not  been  so  entirely  taken  by  surprise. 
"  You  coward,  to  strike  a  woman !"  shouted  the  young  man, 
bringing  his  fist  down  with  a  whack  on  Dolan's  shoulder. 

All  of  a  sudden,  to  Baretta's  intense  amazement,  Dolan  burst 
out  in  a  roar  of  laughter.  This  furious  but  futile  onslaught  ap- 
pealed to  his  sense  of  humour,  and  thus  averted  consequences 
which  might  have  been  highly  disastrous.  "  Ye're  a  dom  fool," 
he  said,  throwing  out  one  muscular  arm  to  ward  off  the  blows. 
"  Kape  quiet — I  didn't  strike  her." 

Thereupon  Baretta  stepped  back  to  the  doorway,  breathing 
rapidly  with  the  exertion  he  had  been  undergoing.  To  Maud, 
who,  white  and  shivering  with  alarm,  had  watched  the  begin- 
ning of  what  seemed  to  her  to  be  a  terrible  conflict,  there  was 
nothing  absurd  in  what  he  had  done.  It  was  all  for  her. 

"  What's  the  book  you  was  givin'  him  ?"  demanded  Dolan, 
turning  to  his  daughter. 

"  Oh,  I— I  don't  know—" 

"  Dunno  ?  That's  a  loikely  story.  Bring  it  here  now,  young 
man." 

59 


"  Oh,  well,  Dolan,"  said  Baretta,  assuming  a  careless  air,  "  if 
it  will  keep  peace  in  the  household  to  give  Miss  Maud  back 
her  book  I  shall  be  only  too  glad  to  do  so."  He  went  to  his 
desk,  and  made  a  random  selection  from  several  volumes  lying 
there.  In  the  growing  obscurity  of  the  evening  he  could  not 
read  the  titles.  "  But  I  think  it's  a  pity  I  can't  exchange  a 
few  words  with  your  daughter  without  all  this  fuss.  It's  an  in- 
sult to  her  and  to  me." 

Dolan  took  the  book  without  replying,  and  handed  it  to 
Maud.  "You  go  down -stairs,"  he  said.  Then  he  advanced 
into  Baretta's  room.  "  I'd  just  loike  a  word  or  two  with  you, 
misther,"  he  added. 

"  Well  ?"  asked  Baretta,  regarding  him  impatiently.  He  felt 
that  he  had  been  placed  in  a  ridiculous  position  and  he  resented 
it.  He  was  a  little  angry  even  with  Maud.  Why  need  she 
have  come  to  his  room  at  all  ?  It  was  really  nothing  important 
that  she  wanted  to  say  to  him. 

"  Ye  took  offinse  last  night,  and  said  ye'd  be  going.  Well,  I 
don't  care  a  dom  whether  ye  go  or  stay.  But  the  old  woman 
has  been  taking  on  about  it." 

"  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  stay." 

"  Oh,  ye  have?  Thin  we've  got  to  have  an  understandin' 
loike.  See  ?" 

"  I  must  confess  that  I  don't." 

"  I'm  an  honest  man,  I  am,  an'  my  gyurl's  an  honest  gynrl. 
If  you  intend  to  make  up  to.  her  you  must  do  it  on  the  square. 
See  ?" 

The  forbidding  scowl  gathered  once  more  between  Baretta's 
eyes.  "  I'm  not  accustomed  to  treat  women  dishonourably,  if 
that  is  what  you  mean,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  there's  been  too  much  talk,  and  I  ain't  goin'  to  have 
no  more  of  it,"  said  Dolan,  doggedly.  "  I'd  rather  ye'd  lave  her 
alone.  But  I  tell  ye  what,  my  fine  feller,  ye've  got  to  lave  her 
or  take  her." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  demanded  Baretta,  "  that  if  I 
don't  marry  your  daughter  I  can't  speak  a  civil  word  to  her  ?" 

"  I  mane  that,  just.  I  ain't  partial  to  furriners  loike  yerself, 
but  I  sha'n't  stand  no  nonsense — moind  that !"  ' 

60 


Then  Dolan  turned  on  his  heel  and  went  thumping  down  the 
stairs,  where  Baretta  could  presently  hear  his  voice  raised  high 
in  argument  with  his  family. 

The  young  man  was  too  angry  to  appreciate  the  ludicrous 
features  of  the  situation  in  which  he  found  himself  placed.  An 
hour  ago  he  could  have  told  Dolan  that  he  had  no  intention 
whatever  of  "making  up  to"  his  daughter,  and  then  have  carried 
out  his  threat  of  leaving  the  house.  But  now  he  was  in  a  me'as- 
ure  bound  by  a  promise  to  the  girl  herself — a  promise  which 
had  been  made  under  circumstances  that  might  justify  her  in 
cherishing  hopes  it  would  be  unmanly  on  his  part  to  shatter. 
What  a  fool  he  had  been  to  kiss  her  !  He  was  not  in  the  least 
in  love  with  her,  he  told  himself;  but  she  had  raised  her  shining 
dark  eyes  to  his,  and  in  them  he  had  read  so  much  gratitude,  to 
say  nothing  of  a  warmer  feeling,  that  the  response  had  been 
spontaneous.  Now  it  was  too  late  to  cherish  idle  regrets.  His 
honour  was  pledged  and  he  must  stand  by  the  bargain.  He  knew 
very  well  who  it  was  that  he  loved.  But  that  was  a  vain  fancy. 
She  was  as  far  above  him  as  the  heavens  were  above  the  earth. 
She  had  always  been  kind ;  that  was  her  nature.  If  he  had  ever 
dared  to  whisper  his  wild  aspirations,  however,  she  would  have 
banished  him  from  her  presence  forever.  She  would  think  him 
impertinent  even  to  hint  of  love.  What  was  he  in  her  eyes  but 
a  humble  dependent — one  whom  she  felt  obliged  to  treat  with 
distant  kindness  ?  The  social  order  which  he  had  bound  himself 
to  destroy  had  set  up  artificial  barriers  between  them ;  and  he 
realized,  with  hopeless  rage,  that  so  far  as  they  were  concerned 
these  barriers  could  never  be  broken  down.  When  the  great 
revolution  came  it  would  be  against  the  class  to  which  she 
belonged  that  the  struggling  mass  of  mankind  would  have  to 
fight.  And  even  if  she  might  have  the  courage  to  take  a  true 
man  for  what  he  was,  had  he  not  by  his  own  act  made  that  im- 
possible ?  There  was  little  tenderness  in  his  heart  for  Maud  as 
he  thought  of  this. 

And  Maud  herself  ?  When  her  father  came  down-stairs  again 
she  looked  up  from  the  corner  where  she  had  seated  herself  with 
something  like  terror.  She  was  holding  the  book  tightly,  as  if 
it  somehow  connected  her  with  Baretta.  She,  poor  girl,  had  no 

61 


longer  any  doubt  as  to  his  feelings  towards  her.  There  had 
been  something  fine  and  romantic  in  his  behaviour.  The  hero 
of  a  "  Duchess  "  novel  would  have  promised  to  stay  because  she 
wanted  him  to  stay,  just  as  he  had  done.  His  kiss  still  burned 
upon  her  lips.  Perhaps  she  had  not  made  it  quite  clear  to  him 
that  she  was  not  offended.  She  could  not  recall  that  any  of  the 
countesses  of  whom  she  had  read  had  ever  been  placed  in  a 
precisely  similar  situation,  and  therefore  she  had  no  precedent 
in  the  light  of  which  to  view  her  own  conduct.  Arragon  Street 
was  not  a  place  which  conduced  to  exalted  ideas  of  life,  and 
Maud  had  always  been  forced  to  draw  upon  the  fiction  of  which 
she  was  fond  for  examples.  Perhaps  she  was  actually  of  no  finer 
clay  than  those  about  her.  But  at  this  particular  period  in  her 
career  she  certainly  cherished  aspirations  which,  if  fulfilled, 
might  have  fitted  her  for  a  somewhat  more  refined  environment. 
At  least  she  was  not  hopelessly  vulgar,  like  most  of  the  girls 
whom  she  knew.  They  were  content  with  the  coarse  pleasures 
at  hand,  while  she  was  always  dreaming  of  those  "genteel" 
circles  in  which  she  imagined  the  young  men  at  Jackson  & 
Moore's  moved.  She  knew  that  the  "  swells  "  with  whom  Baretta 
associated  were  beyond  her,  and  she  always  thought  of  them  as 
a  hostile  influence.  She  wanted  him  merely  to  be  "genteel," 
and  to  take  her  away  from  Arragon  Street.  She  did  not  at  all 
understand  his  outbursts  against  society,  although  she  could  un- 
derstand why  he  should  be  dissatisfied  with  his  present  sur- 
roundings. As  we  have  seen,  she  had  wondered  how  he  could 
endure  them.  Now,  as  she  reflected  upon  the  promise  that  he 
had  made  so  solemnly,  she  thought  that  she  knew.  Oh,  she 
would  be  so  fond  of  him — so  proud  of  him !  He  would  never 
regret  that  he  had  given  up  his  swells  for  her  sake.  She  knew 
that  she  would  lay  down  her  very  life  for  him.  What  could  she 
not  endure  with  the  hope  of  release  at  last  ?  It  was  the  thought 
that  she  might  never  be  able  to  escape  from  her  present  sur- 
roundings which  was  so  maddening.  She  had  often  said  to 
herself  that  she  would  rather  go  to  the  bad  altogether,  as  other 
girls  in  Arragon  Street  had  done,  than  live  on  in  wretchedness 
and  squalor  and  become  some  day  a  mere  household  drudge  like 
her  mother.  No  doubt  she  betrayed  in  this  a  lamentable  lack 

62" 


of  moral  principle.  But  virtue  is  so  easily  practised  by  those 
who  have  no  temptation  to  vice.  And  the  unrewarded  virtue 
of  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Dolan  seemed  somehow  contemptible  to 
one  who  had  been  half-way  through  the  high-school,  and  who 
recognized  the  mental  superiority  conferred  by  this  distinc- 
tion. 

"  I've  given  that  dom  cuss  a  bellyful,"  announced  Dolan,  draw- 
ing a  chair  up  to  the  supper-table,  and  contemplating  with  pleas- 
ure the  dish  of  sausages  before  him.  "  Here,  Theresa,"  he 
added,  addressing  one  of  the  younger  girls,  "  take  that  pitcher 
and  get  us  some  beer.  Here's  the  money." 

"  Don't  be  afther  sendin'  her,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Dolan.  "  Let 
one  of  the  b'ys  go." 

"  The  b'ys  is  tired,  like  meself.  What's  a  gyurl  for,  if  she 
can't  run  errands  ?" 

Mrs.  Dolan  sighed.  "Do  as  yer  father  says,  Theresa,  but 
moind  ye  don't  be  gone  long." 

"  Oh,  there's  a  daisy  young  man  at  Toomey's  now,"  remarked 
the  girl,  taking  the  pitcher. 

"You  jist  let  the  young  men  alone,"  said  her  father.  "  There's 
too  many  of  'em  round  here,  I'm  thinkin'." 

"'Tis  hard  to  bring  up  a  gyurl  decent  nowadays,"  observed 
Mrs.  Dolan,  as  Theresa  disappeared. 

"  Small  thanks  to  you,  old  woman,"  grumbled  the  head  of  the 
family. 

"  I  don't  know  what  ye  mane  by  that,  Peter." 

"  Ask  that  dom  furriner  tip-stairs,  then." 

"  It's  Mr.  Baretta  who's  been  a  good  friend  to  us,"  protested 
Mrs.  Dolan. 

"Och,  he's  a  great  feller  among  the  women  —  hey,  Maud?" 
cried  Dolan,  looking  over  at  the  corner  where  the  girl  sat. 
"  Why  don't  ye  spake  ?"  he  went  on,  as  she  said  nothing.  "  Is 
it  dumb  ye  are  all  of  a  suddint  ?" 

"  Father  !"  cried  the  girl,  with  a  sudden  blaze  of  anger,  "  you've 
no  right  to  speak  to  me  in  that  way." 

"No  right,  ye  hussy  !  It's  a  foine  thing  ye  have  a  father  to 
look  afther  ye." 

"  What  was  it  you  said  to  him  ?"  Maud  rose,  and  her  face  was 

63 


very  pale,  but  she  felt  all  the  courage  of  the  hunted  creature 
at  bay. 

Dolan  roared  with  laughter  and  swung  a  sausage  triumphantly 
aloft  upon  his  fork.  "  Ye've  learnt  yer  lesson  of  imperence  well," 
he  said.  "  Ask  him  if  ye'd  loike  to  know."  Then  he  roared 
again. 

An  angry  red  succeeded  the  whiteness  in  the  girl's  face.  She 
stepped  close  to  the  table  and  faced  her  father  defiantly.  "  Oh, 
how  I  hate  you  !"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  but  so  distinctly  that 
every  word  pierced  the  air  like  a  knife.  "  How  I  hate  this  life  !" 
And  before  he  could  recover  from  his  astonishment  she  had 
rushed  from  the  room,  slamming  the  door  so  violently  that  the 
dishes  on  the  table  rattled. 

Dolan  was  too  completely  taken  aback  to  resent  this  unheard- 
of  insolence  in  his  usual  emphatic  way.  "  That  gyurl  '11  come 
to  a  bad  end,"  he  muttered,  making  a  savage  slash  at  his  sau- 
sage. "  Shut  up  yer  dom  whimpering,  old  woman,  and  give  me 
a  piece  of  bread  !" 

But  Maud  hurried  through  the  dark  passage  with  a  swelling 
sense  of  misery  which  manifested  itself  in  choking  sobs.  For 
several  minutes  she  stood  by  the  open  door,  looking  out  at  the 
gloomy  street,  chill  and  dripping  with  rain.  Oh,  if  she  could 
but  get  away  from  the  dismal  life  she  was  leading !  What  hope 
was  there  for  her  so  long  as  she  remained  ?  Even  the  consola- 
tion of  Baretta's  presence  brought  her  only  fresh  trouble.  Then 
she  thought  of  the  book  he  had  given  her,  and  glanced  at  it 
idly  ;  for  she  had  been  holding  it  tightly  all  this  time,  as  if  it 
were  the  one  link  that  bound  her  to  possible  happiness.  It  was 
a  book  of  poems.  Maud  had  never  cared  much  for  poetry;  it 
struck  her  as  silly  stuff,  and  she  wondered  how  grown  people 
could  waste  their  time  over  it.  But  the  name  on  the  title-page 
arrested  her  attention.  "  Laura  Hastings  Chilton  " — that  must 
be  the  Mrs.  Chilton  that  Baretta  had  spoken  of.  If  she  was 
married,  of  course  it  was  foolish  to  be  jealous  of  her  ;  but  Maud 
wondered  whether  she  was  young  and  beautiful,  and  perhaps 
admired  and  flattered  this  young  man.  Then  a  name  written  in 
the  fly-leaf,  in  a  woman's  hand,  caught  her  eye.  "Mildred  Law- 
rence "—^there  it  was  in  bold  decisive  letters.  A  sudden  pain 

64 


shot  through  her  heart  as  she  looked.  It  was  an  unfamiliar 
name,  but  a  supreme  feeling  of  misery  came  over  her  at  the 
sight  of  it.  He  had  never  spoken  of  any  Mildred  Lawrence — 
oh  no  !  But  now  she  understood  whom  he  had  meant  by  "her." 
She  crept  softly  up-stairs  and  laid  the  book  against  Baretta's 
door.  Then  she  crept  down  again,  and  catching  a  hat  and  cloak 
from  a  hook  in  the  entry,  put  them  on  and  went  out  into  the 
dripping,  dismal  evening. 

E  65 


CHAPTER  VII 
"UNDER  WHICH  KING,  BEZONIAN?" 

"  I'M  glad  I  found  you  at  home ;  I  want  to  have  a  long  talk 
with  you."  Baretta's  visitor  stepped  in  from  the  narrow  entry, 
holding  at  arra's-length  a  dripping  umbrella.  "  Where  shall  I 
put  this  ?  It's  raining  cats  and  dogs  outside." 

"  Take  this  chair,  Mr.  Ditton — you  will  find  it  more  comfort- 
able," said  Baretta.  "  Though  there  isn't  a  great  deal  of  luxury 
to  be  had  in  Arragon  Street,"  he  added,  with  a  rather  bitter 
laugh. 

Ditton  looked  at  him  earnestly  a  moment  before  replying.  He 
had  a  vague  feeling  that  his  influence  over  this  young  man,  which 
had  hitherto  seemed  to  him  to  be  all  pervasive  if  not  all  power- 
ful, was  in  some  mysterious  fashion  dying  away ;  and  it  dis- 
turbed him.  Perhaps  he  had  inherited  a  love  of  spiritual  au- 
thority from  his  ministerial  days.  He  was  making  converts 
now  to  a  religion  in  which  authority  was  denied,  but  he  always 
half  unconsciously  addressed  his  followers  from  the  elevation 
of  the  pulpit. 

"You  were  wrong  to  quarrel  with  Luck,"  said  Ditton,  pres- 
ently. "He  has  a  very  ugly  temper,  and  he  doesn't  forget 
things  easily." 

"  If  you  think  I  am  afraid  of  him — "  cried  Baretta. 

"  No — I  don't  want  you  to  be.  But  you  ought  to  understand 
that  dissensions  in  our  own  ranks  only  weaken  us  in  our  fight 
against  the  enemy." 

Baretta,  who  had  seated  himself  by  the  table,  drummed  with 
his  fingers  upon  the  wooden  surface  and  scowled.  "  Well,  I 
think  he's  one  of  the  enemy,"  he  said,  at  last. 


"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  say  that.  Mind  you,  I  admit 
that  he  is  capable  of  doing  harm  as  well  as  good.  But  he's  a 
great  organizer,  and  organization  is  what  we  want." 

"  Yes,  he  can  organize  strikes,  if  that  is  what  you  mean.  I 
have  never  been  able  to  see,  however,  that  making  fifty  or  a 
hundred  men  knock  off  work  for  a  month  or  two,  and  loaf 
around  the  street-corners  and  in  the  saloons,  is  bringing  us  any 
nearer  to  the  equalization  of  social  conditions.  In  fact,  it  seems 
to  me  to  have  just  the  opposite  effect." 

"  Oh,  you  look  at  it  from  too  narrow  and  personal  a  point  of 
view,  Baretta.  The  thing  to  consider  is  that  these  fifty  or  a 
hundred  men  are  not  getting  their  rights.  They  have  a  few 
hundred  dollars  a  year  while  their  employers  have  a  hundred 
thousand.  Now  the  increase  they  may  ask  for  isn't  much  in 
comparison  with  the  whole  amount  of  the  profits;  but  it's  some- 
thing, and  enough  to  mean  the  difference  between  beggary  and 
comfort  to  them.  And  they've  got  to  make  a  stand  somewhere 
— they've  got  to  make  the  capitalists  feel  that  they  have  the 
power  if  they  choose  to  use  it." 

"  That's  all  very  well,"  said  Baretta,  irritably ;  "  but  demon- 
strating their  own  power  is  precisely  what  they  don't  accom- 
plish. They  spend  a  month  of  idleness — until  their  money  is 
all  gone,  and  they  are  in  debt  to  the  grocer,  and  have  begun  to 
go  to  the  pawnshops  to  get  money  for  drink — and  then  they 
go  to  work  again  at  the  employer's  terms.  Meanwhile  fellows 
like  Luck  have  been  taxing  other  workmen  to  support  the  strik- 
ers— and  themselves." 

"You're  talking  like  a  capitalist  yourself  now;  where  did  you 
pick  up  such  ideas  ?" 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  that  I'm  a  fool !"  cried  Baretta.  "  Thank 
you  for  your  high  opinion  of  me." 

"  See  here,  my  dear  young  man,"  said  Ditton,  fixing  his  pen- 
etrating gray  eyes  upon  his  companion's  face.  "  Are  you  han- 
kering for  the  flesh-pots  of  Egypt  already  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Mr.  Ditton.  I  think  I'm  at 
least  as  true  to  the  cause  as  that  man  Luck  is.  And  I'm  not 
saying  that  the  working-man  is  treated  right.  Good  God !  don't 
I  live  here  among  working-men  and  see  things  every  day  that 

67 


make  my  blood  boil  ?  But  I  still  insist  that  strikes  of  the  kind 
engineered  by  the  professional  agitator  are  utterly  useless.  We 
can  never  get  ahead  by  making  demands  that  we  can't  en- 
force." 

"  Ah,  yes — we  may  fail  now.  But  some  day  there  will  be  a 
combination  of  every  trade,  and  it  will  succeed  because  it  is  ir- 
resistible. Think  of  it !  That's  the  sort  of  strike  we'll  have 
yet.  And  when  the  capitalist  feels  the  hand  of  honest  labour 
at  his  throat  he'll  disgorge  fast  enough — don't  you  imagine  he 
won't." 

"  Oh,  a  combination  of  that  sort  might  be  irresistible.  But 
mercenary  loafers  like  Luck  will  never  bring  it  about.  Besides, 
the  trouble  with  the  working-men  always  has  been  that  they 
can't  hold  together  for  any  length  of  time.** 

"  See  here  !"  interrupted  Ditton,  suddenly.  "  Are  you  think- 
ing of  playing  traitor  to  the  cause?  Because  if  you  are  I 
don't  want  anything  further  to  do  with  you." 

"  You've  no  right  to  ask  such  a  question  !"  cried  Baretta  an- 
grily, springing  to  his  feet. 

"  Yes,  I  have.  I  want  to  know  the  kind  of  man  I'm  dealing 
with  and  what  to  expect." 

"  Well,  then,  I  refuse  to  answer.  If  that  is  your  opinion  of 
me,  you  are  welcome  to  it."  He  walked  to  the  window  and 
stood  gazing  down  into  the  blackness  of  the  street,  through 
which  at  distant  intervals  the  lamps  sent  forth  an  uncertain 
blur  of  light.  "  Good  God  !"  he  cried,  after  a  pause,  "  haven't 
I  had  enough  to  annoy  me  to-day  without  this  ?" 

Ditton,  who  had  kept  his  seat  with  apparent  calmness,  ran  his 
fingers  through  his  hair  contemplatively  before  replying.  "  I 
didn't  mean  to  offend  you,"  he  said  at  last.  "  The  question  was 
a  natural  one.  But  I  believe  that  you  mean  well — that  you 
have  only  the  natural  impatience  of  youth." 

"  You  are  exceedingly  kind,"  said  Baretta,  sarcastically. 

"  Come,  now,  don't  get  miffed  about  it.  What  has  happened 
to  annoy  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  various  things ;  they  wouldn't  interest  you." 

"  Don't  be  so  sure  of  that.  Have  you  had  any  trouble  with 
Dolan  ?" 

68 


"Why  should  I  have  any  trouble  with  Dolan?"  asked  Baretta, 
turning  from  the  window  and  facing  his  visitor. 

"  I  only  know  what  Luck  said — about  his  daughter." 

"  Luck  is  a  damned  officious  fool !"  cried  the  young  man 
savagely. 

"That  may  be,  my  friend.  But  let  me  advise  you,  just  the 
same,  not  to  get  yourself  tangled  up  with  women.  It  doesn't 
pay." 

"  Don't  you  think  I'm  able  to  look  out  for  myself  ?"  asked 
Baretta,  seating  himself  at  the  table  again. 

Ditton  uncrossed  his  legs,  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  once 
more  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair.  "  I  think  too  much  of 
you,  Baretta,"  he  said,  "  to  let  you  quarrel  with  me.  Yes,  I 
dare  say  you  are  able  to  look  out  for  yourself  in  most  things. 
You're  an  uncommonly  brilliant  fellow.  But  I  don't  believe 
you're  past  needing  good  advice  now  and  then,  any  more  than 
the  rest  of  us." 

"  Thank  you !" 

"  Come,  come,  drop  that  sneering  tone,  and  listen  to  me.  I 
beg  your  pardon  for  what  I  said  about  being  a  traitor  to  the 
cause.  I  have  no  reason  to  believe  that  of  you,  and  I  don't  be- 
lieve it.  But  there  is  always  some  danger  of  the  best  of  us  be- 
ing led  off  on  false  scents.  I  thought  you  might  have  struck 
the  wrong  trail." 

"  Of  course,  if  you  would  rather  stick  to  Luck  than  to  me — " 

"  Don't  be  absurd.  The  work  we  have  to  do  is  big  enough 
for  all  the  workers.  Only  don't  get  into  any  more  rows  with 
him.  And  let  Dolan's  daughter  alone." 

"  See  here,  Mr.  Ditton,"  said  Baretta,  flushing,  "  you  seem  to 
have  got  some  queer  ideas  about  me.  Let  me  tell  you  exactly 
how  things  stand.  I  like  the  girl  very  well.  But  I'm  not  in 
love  with  her,  if  that's  what  you  mean." 

"  I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it,  Baretta — very  glad  indeed." 

"  Dolan  is  such  an  old  fool,  though !  He  kicks  up  a  row  if  I 
look  at  her,  and  Heaven  knows  it's  only  because  I  pity  her,  and 
want  to  help  her — to  help  them  all.  Ask  Mrs.  Nolan  if  she's 
got  any  reason  to  complain  of  me.  Look  there,"  he  added, 
pointing  to  the  books  piled  up  on  the  floor,  and  the  valise  lying 

69 


open  on  the  bed,  "  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  cut  the  place  al- 
together, only — only  that  they  asked  me  to  stay." 

"  They  ?"  repeated  Ditton  with  a  smile.  "  Don't  you  mean 
1  she  ?'  I  don't  believe  you'd  stay  for  Mrs.  Dolan." 

"  Both,"  said  Baretta.  lie  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  de- 
scribe the  scene  of  two  hours  ago,  or  to  refer  to  the  interview 
which  followed  it,  "  And  I  said  that  I  would  stay — for  the 
present.  If  the  works  shut  down,  or  the  men  go  out  as  Luck 
wants  them  to,  I  guess  they'll  need  a  friend." 

"Well,  well — I  dare  say  you'll  do  what's  right."  Ditton 
hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  added,  "But  there's  one  other 
matter  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about.  What's  your  idea  in  go- 
ing to  see  those  other  women  ?" 

"  What  other  women  ?    I  don't  understand  you." 

"  Oh  yes,  you  do.  I  mean  these  people  that  have  receptions 
and  things  and  ask  you  to  them.  Certainly  they  can't  do  you 
any  good — if  you  mean  to  stick  by  us." 

"  Perhaps  I  can  do  them  some  good.  If  you  mean  Mrs. 
Chilton,  she's  interested  in  Socialism." 

Ditton  grunted.  "  Now  I  don't  know  anything  about  your 
upper  crust  here  in  Boston.  I  was  born  and  brought  up  in 
Vermont,  and  before  I  found  what  my  true  call  was  I  preached 
up  there,  and  in  New  Hampshire,  to  plain,  every-day  country 
people.  But  I  can  tell  you  one  thing.  They're  not  in  earnest 
— not  one  of  them.  They're  only  trying  to  amuse  themselves 
with  you." 

"  Well,  I  know  one  or  two  who  arc  in  earnest.  There's  Mr. 
Sibley  Lawrence — I  suppose  you've  heard  of  him." 

"  One  of  the  very  worst  of  the  whole  lot !"  cried  Ditton, 
thumping  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"  Why,  there  isn't  a  man  in  Boston  who's  more  interested  in 
the  poor !" 

"  Yes,  confound  him — that's  why  he  does  so  much  mischief. 
Oh,  I  know  the  breed  !  He  poses  as  a  philanthropist,  and  thinks 
that  if  a  man  will  live  in  one  of  his  model  tenements  and  pat- 
ronize his  cheap  coffee-house,  he  ought  to  be  contented  with  his 
lot.  That's  no  way  to  help  men — to  rob  them  of  their  inde- 
pendence." 

70 


"But  that's  just  what  Mr.  Lawrence  doesn't  do,"  said  Baretta, 
eagerly.  "His  idea  isn't  charity,  but  practical  assistance.  He 
says  that  the  men  who  have  money  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  ask 
the  rents  they  do  for  miserable  rat-traps,  and  that  if  they  offer 
the  working-men  decent  homes  they  can  get  a  fair  return  on  their 
investment,  which  is  all  they  have  a  right  to  expect." 

"  Oh,  it's  the  old  story.  Do  you  recollect  what  I  said  the 
other  night  ?  That's  the  worst  thing  you  can  do  for  the  work- 
ing-man— make  him  content  and  get  him  to  save  up  money,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing.  Then  he's  on  the  side  of  society,  and 
becomes  a  part  of  the  monstrous  injustice  that  we're  trying  to 
overthrow." 

"  Well,  it  seems  to  me  that  anything  which  makes  the  poor 
man  more  comfortable  is  to  be  encouraged  as  a  step  in  the  right 
direction." 

To  this  argument  Ditton  made  no  reply.  He  threw  his  head 
back  and  gazed  reflectively  at  the  ceiling  for  a  moment.  "  How  did 
you  get  acquainted  with  Sibley  Lawrence  ?"  he  asked,  presently. 

"  At  the  Young  Men's  Social  and  Literary  Association.  I  go 
there  sometimes  to  get  the  books  I  want.  Is  there  anything 
wrong  in  that  ?" 

"  Ah,  yes — that's  one  of  his  philanthropic  schemes." 

"  You  talk  as  if  you  didn't  approve  of  it." 

"  I  don't." 

"  See  here,  Mr.  Ditton,"  said  Baretta,  rising  again  and  be- 
ginning to^pace  restlessly  up  and  down.  "I  might  as  well 
tell  you  the  whole  story  from  beginning  to  end.  I'm  sorry  if 
you  dislike  the  Association,  but  it's  better  than  the  Public  Li- 
brary, in  some  respects,  for  a  fellow  who  wants  to  read  and 
study.  They  have  all  the  magazines  and  reviews  there,  and  a 
good  many  books,  and  you  can  get  at  them  without  any  bother. 
A  man  I  used  to  know  at  Jackson  &  Moore's  took  me  there 
first.  I  don't  care  anything  about  the  religious  meetings,  or 
the  lectures  on  politics  and  literature,  but  you're  not  obliged  to 
go  to  those.  And  it  only  costs  two  dollars  a  year  to  belong. 
Well,  Mr.  Lawrence  takes  a  great  interest  in  the  Association, 
and  he  often  looks  in  of  an  evening,  and  talks  in  a  pleasant  way 
to  the  young  men  who  are  there." 

71 


"  Yes,"  interrupted  Ditton.  "  Your  real  philanthropist  is  al- 
ways mighty  patronizing." 

"  He  wasn't  patronizing  to  me,"  said  Baretta,  sharply.  "  I 
don't  like  that  sort  of  thing  any  better  than  you  do.  But  we 
got  into  conversation  once  or  twice,  and  he  seemed  to  be  in- 
terested in  my  ideas.  After  that  he  always  spoke  to  me  when 
he  came  in,  and  in  that  way  we  got  to  be  pretty  well  acquainted." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  Ditton,  with  a  dry  laugh.  "You  have  a 
faculty  for  getting  on  with  the  swells.  Your  father  must  have 
been  a  duke  at  least  before  he  came  to  this  country." 

"  You  are  unfair  to  me,  Mr.  Ditton,"  protested  Baretta.  "  A 
man  can't  help  his  birth,"  he  added,  with  an  air  which  intimated 
that  he  might  be  descended  even  from  princely  stock. 

Ditton  lay  back  in  his  chair  again  and  laughed  aloud.  "  Oh, 
you  amuse  me  !"  he  cried.  "  Why  do  you  want  to  be  a  Socialist 
at  all  ?  Why  don't  you  go  back  to  the  old  country  and  claim 
your  title  ?" 

"  You'll  be  sorry  some  day  for  talking  to  me  like  this,"  said 
Baretta,  that  livid  scowl  displaying  itself  between  his  eyes. 

"  Come,  come,  my  boy,  don't  get  mad.  Go  on  and  tell  me 
about  Lawrence." 

"  There's  nothing  to  tell.  One  day  he  offered  to  lend  me  a 
book  which  wasn't  in  the  Association  library,  and  asked  me  to 
call  at  his  house  for  it ;  and  when  I  called  he  asked  me  in  and 
talked  with  me  there." 

"  And  so  you  became  a  friend  of  the  family.  I  thought  the 
Lawrences  were  too  proud  to  know  any  one  who  didn't  come 
over  in  the  Mayflower.  But  I  suppose  your  title  helped  you." 
Ditton  laughed  again,  and  rose  as  if  to  go. 

Baretta  said  nothing.  His  heart  was  afire  with  rage,  and  he 
was  afraid  that  if  he  spoke  he  would  lose  all  control  of  himself. 

"  Well,  well,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Ditton,  thrusting  his 
big  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  strolling  carelessly  to  the  win- 
dow. "  Raining  still,  isn't  it  ?"  he  continued,  looking  out, 
"Look  here,  Baretta,  forgive  and  forget.  I  think  a  good  deal 
of  you,  and  I  don't  want  to  see  you  led  astray  by  false  lights. 
These  people  may  take  you  up  to  amuse  themselves,  but  they 
will  drop  you  like  a  hot  cake  when  they  get  tired  of  you.  And 

72 


don't  you  make  the  mistake  of  thinking  you  can  really  interest 
them  in  our  work.  Why,  man,  it's  like  asking  them  to  assist  at 
their  own  destruction.  As  for  Sibley  Lawrence,  he  means  well ; 
but  I  don't  like  that  kind.  I  suppose  he  wants  to  push  you 
forward  as  a  great  prodigy  from  the  ranks  of  us  common  people 
— discovered  by  him.  Has  he  asked  you  to  dinner  yet  to  meet 
the  big  bugs  of  State  Street,  or  the  professors  out  at  Harvard  ?" 

"  Mr.  Lawrence  has  been  very  kind  to  me — so  have  all  his 
family.  If  you  don't  like  my  idea  of  bringing  our  cause  to  the 
notice  of  those  who  at  least  are  willing  to  listen  to  it,  why,  then, 
there's  nothing  more  to  be  said.  Only  you  have  no  right  to 
charge  me  with  treachery  because  I  thought  I  could  do  some 
good  in  that  way."  Baretta  spoke  coldly  enough ;  but  there 
was  still  that  burning  sense  of  anger  and  indignation  within 
him.  Why  had  this  man  joined  the  conspiracy  to  crowd  him  to 
the  wall?  Was  it  because  he  was  jealous  of  him — because  he 
recognized  in  him  a  dangerous  rival? 

"  Try  your  scheme  if  you  like,  Baretta.  Only  bear  in  mind 
that  I  warn  you  what  will  come  of  it.  These  new  friends  of 
yours  are  more  likely  to  convert  you  than  you  are  to  convert 
them." 

"You  are  down  on  me,  Mr.  Ditton,  like  the  rest,"  said  the 
young  man,  glowering  at  his  visitor. 

"Down  on  you?  What  are  you  talking  about?  There's  no 
one  down  on  you  that  I  know  of,  unless  it's  Luck,  and  you 
must  admit  that  he  has  some  reason.  But  I  see  you  don't  want 
to  talk  to  me  any  longer."  Ditton  reached  for  his  hat  and 
umbrella.  "  Come  and  see  me  when  you've  got  over  your  mad," 
he  added,  with  a  quizzical  smile. 

Baretta  made  no  effort  to  detain  him.  "  I  don't  know  why 
you  should  treat  me  in  this  way,"  he  said,  sullenly.  He  pre- 
ceded Ditton  to  the  door  and  opened  it.  "  The  entry  is  dark  as 
usual.  I'll  go  down  with  you.  Mind  that  first  step." 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  Ditton  stopped  and  held  out  his 
hand.  "  Well,  well,  you  and  I  can't  afford  to  quarrel.  We've 
got  enough  to  do  to  fight  the  enemy.  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt 
your  feelings,  and  I  don't  want  to  interfere  with  vour  plans. 
If  you  think  you  can  do  any  good  by  going  to  see  Sibley  Law- 

73 


rence,  go  by  all  means.    But  keep  a  level  head  on  your  shoulders 
—that's  all." 

"  Oh,  I  may  never  meet  any  of  them  again,"  said  Baretta, 
gloomily.  "They  don't  care  for  me  —  I  know  that  well 
enough." 

"  Well,  well !"  Ditton  opened  the  front  door,  and  held  out 
his  hand  again.  "  Keep  up  your  courage  ;  all  these  things  will 
be  set  right  some  day." 

Baretta,  peering  out  into  the  blackness,  heard  his  departing 
footsteps  echoing  along  the  silent  street.  This  young  man  was 
still  in  anything  but  an  amiable  mood.  He  resented  bitterly 
Ditton's  counsel,  which  seemed  to  him  to  have  been  influenced 
by  purely  selfish  motives.  Small  minds,  he  argued,  were  always 
envious  of  great.  There  was  a  time  when  he  had  been  content 
to  follow  the  Socialist  preacher  implicitly.  But  now  he  felt 
that  he  was  too  well  able  to  make  his  own  way  in  the  world  to 
follow  any  one.  In  any  case  it  was  absurd  and  unjust  for 
Ditton  to  suspect  his  motives — to  assume  that  he  was  ready  to 
desert  to  the  other  side.  He  repudiated  the  idea  that  he  had 
been  patronized  by  Mr.  Lawrence ;  if  there  had  been  any  pat- 
ronizing it  was  on  Ditton's  part.  "  Come,  come,  my  boy,  don't 
get  mad !"  He  recalled  his  visitor's  words  with  the  conviction 
that  they  were  intended  to  imply  superiority.  He  would  not  be 
addressed  as  "my  boy  "  again — as  if  he  were  a  petulant  child 
that  had  to  be  soothed.  Was  he  not  conscious  of  powers  stir- 
ring within  him  which  would  some  day  make  him  known  and 
respected  of  all  men  ?  And  was  an  obscure  Socialist  orator — a 
man  who  had  only  been  a  country  parson — to  try  to  dictate  to 
him  ?  The  people  at  Mrs.  Chilton's  had  recognized  his  impor- 
tance at  once.  He  had  forgotten  for  the  time  those  feelings 
of  humiliation  which  his  experiences  with  them  had  at  first  en- 
gendered. 

"  Why,  Maud !"  Baretta  started  back  in  surprise  as  he  saw 
the  girl  standing  before  him.  In  his  absorption  he  had  not  ob- 
served her  approach. 

"  Let  me  pass,  please !"  she  said.  Her  voice  sounded  hoarsely, 
and  in  the  darkness  her  face,  which  she  now  lifted  to  his, 
seemed  as  white  as  the  face  of  one  who  is  dead. 

74 


"  You  are  dripping  wet.  Why  have  you  been  out  in  this 
storm  ?"  He  stepped  back  to  allow  her  to  enter  the  door. 

To  this  question  she  made  no  answer.  But  as  she  hurried  by 
he  put  out  a  detaining  arm. 

"  Maud  !  What  is  the  matter  ?  Why  won't  you  speak  to 
me  ?" 

"Let  me  go  !"  She  twitched  herself  free  from  his  grasp  and 
vanished  up  the  narrow  stairway. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
MILDRED  IS  DOUBTFUL 

PERHAPS  the  most  striking  characteristic  of  the  sex  misnamed 
the  gentler,  or  weaker,  is  inconsistency.  Vergil's  "  varium  et 
mutabile  semper"  has  been  taken  to  mean  that  it  is  always  a 
woman's  prerogative  to  change  her  mind ;  if  so,  she  exercises  it 
to  the  full.  Mildred  Lawrence,  after  telling  Philip  that  she 
could  never  forgive  him,  went  home  and  wondered  if  he  would 
ever  forgive  her.  She  did  not  for  a  moment  admit  that  she  had 
deceived  him  as  to  the  true  state  of  her  feelings ;  indeed,  she 
felt  that  she  had  been  quite  too  frank  in  letting  him  understand 
that,  although  everything  was  over  between  them,  her  love  was 
not  yet  a  thing  of  the  past.  But  she  kept  thinking  of  his  dec- 
laration that  she  had  been  a  little  hard  with  him,  and  wonder- 
ing if  indeed  she  was  to  blame  in  that"  respect.  She  had  been 
very  indignant  with  him  for  disappointing  that  ideal  conception 
of  his  character  which  she  had  once  cherished ;  she  was  still  too 
young  to  accept  as  inevitable  the  process  of  disillusion  which 
comes  some  time  to  all  women  regarding  the  men  they  love. 
The  attachment  between  these  two  young  people  had  not  been 
of  sudden  growth.  They  had  known  each  other  from  child- 
hood. The  Lawrences  had  come  from  Lexington,  too,  although 
Sibley  Lawrence  and  his  family  spent  little  time  there.  The  old 
homestead  was  about  a  mile  beyond  the  Yates  house,  on  the 
Concord  Road,  and  it  was  at  present  occupied  by  Alfred  Law- 
rence, a  bachelor  cousin  of  Sibley's — a  man  of  fifty,  who  did 
not  keep  up  much  of  an  establishment  nor  do  anything  to  en- 
tertain the  neighbourhood,  but  contented  himself  with  having  a 
male  friend  or  two  down  from  the  city  now  and  then.  But  in 

76 


Mildred's  younger  days,  when  Alfred  was  abroad — there  was  a 
mysterious  gap  in  his  life  during  which  this  was  practically  the 
sole  fact  known  concerning  him — Sibley  Lawrence  had  spent 
several  successive  summers  in  Lexington,  and  thus  the  intimacy 
between  the  Lawrences  and  the  Yateses  grew  and  flourished. 
That  Mildred  and  Philip  would  some  day  marry  was  taken  for 
granted  long  before  there  was  anything  like  a  definite  engage- 
ment between  them.  For  a  time  they  drifted  apart,  especially 
during  the  years  of  the  young  man's  residence  at  Cambridge. 
This  was  not  because  there  was  any  conscious  estrangement ; 
up  to  this  time,  indeed,  there  had  been  no  conscious  love-making. 
Mildred  was  hardly  more  than  a  child  when  Philip  entered  Har- 
vard ;  at  the  time  of  his  graduation  she  was  just  about  to 
emerge  from  that  conventional  nursery  in  which  young  girls  are 
supposed  to  exist  until  society  has  formally  made  their  acquaint- 
ance. His  Glass  Day  was  one  of  the  first  functions  of  any  con- 
sequence that  she  had  been  permitted  to  attend.  After  this  his 
attentions  to  her  began  to  take  on  a  definite  meaning.  Neither 
could  have  told  precisely  how  it  happened,  but  some  three  years 
later  the  engagement  between  them  was  announced. 

Hitherto  affairs  had  run  so  smoothly  with  them  that  no  one 
who  knew  them  would  have  predicted  what  afterwards  hap- 
pened. The  match,  as  all  the  relatives  on  both  sides  said,  was 
obviously^  suitable.  The  Yateses  were  not  so  wealthy  as  the 
Lawrences,  but  Philip  would  have  enough,  with  what  Sibley 
Lawrence  would  undoubtedly  settle  upon  his  only  child,  to  get 
along  very  comfortably.  The  house  at  Lexington  would  belong 
to  him  when  his  father  died ;  and  then  Mildred's  father  would 
undoubtedly  expect  the  young  people  to  spend  at  least  a  part 
of  each  winter  with  him  in  Boston,  in  the  handsome  old-fash- 
ioned mansion  in  Mount  Vernon  Street.  Besides,  Philip  was 
such  a  brilliant  fellow — everybody  admitted  that.  To  be  sure, 
his  career  at  Cambridge  had  been  rather  disappointing,  and  he 
had  abandoned  his  legal  studies  as  uncongenial ;  but  then,  many 
young  men  find  it  difficult  to  make  up  their  minds  at  the  start. 
Mildred  herself  made  these  excuses  for  him  at  first ;  but  by- 
and-by  she  recognized  the  fact  that  they  were  mere  evasions, 
and  that  the  great  things  he  had  promised  to  do  were  as  far 

77 


from  being  done  as  ever.  After  his  father's  death  Philip's 
course  seemed  to  become  more  irresolute  than  ever.  Perhaps 
the  possession  of  an  assured  income  was  not  an  unmixed  bless- 
ing in  his  case.  He  took  the  rooms  in  Livingstone  Pla.ce,  and 
devoted  himself  to  the  mysterious  pursuit  of  literature — with 
what  results  we  have  already  seen.  Although  the  house  in  Lex- 
ington was  his  he  went  there  very  little,  it  being  understood 
that  his  mother  should  have  the  use  of  it  during  her  life.  His 
two  sisters  had  incomes  provided  for  them  out  of  Mr.  Yates's 
personal  estate ;  and  as  one  of  them  was  married,  and  the  other 
soon  to  be  married,  there  was  no  cause  for  anxiety  concerning 
their  future.  Thus  there  was  no  spur  beyond  personal  ambition 
to  prick  the  side  of  Philip's  intent.  Mildred  Lawrence  had  not 
yet  told  him  that  she  despised  him  as  an  idler  who  would  never 
accomplish  anything  worth  accomplishing.  Yet  this  was  finally 
what  she  said  one  day  in  an  exasperated  mood — that  day  when 
they  quarrelled  and  separated  forever.  Of  course  she  had  not 
meant  to  be  so  severe  as  all  that.  But  his  indifference,  his  way 
of  laughing  at  her  indignation  over  his  failure  to  fulfil  her  ex- 
pectations, had  exasperated  her  thoroughly ;  and  so  she  had 
used  that  word  "  despise  "  to  him.  Then  in  a  moment  all  was 
over  between  them.  Philip,  usually  so  equable,  grew  furious  at 
the  taunt.  Ah,  she  could  hardly  recall  his  words  now ;  it 
seemed  only  a  moment  until  she  had  found  herself  alone  and  in 
tears,  and  had  heard  the  door  closing  behind  him.  Then  there 
had  been  a  cold  note  from  her  to  him  breaking  off  the  engage- 
ment, and  a  colder  one  from  him  to  her  accepting  her  decision. 
Under  any  other  circumstances  the  young  man  might  not  have 
yielded  so  quickly.  But  that  word  "  despise  "  rankled  in  his 
heart ;  if  she  had  ever  loved  him  she  could  not  have  said  it. 
And  Mildred  herself  felt  quite  as  strongly  that  reconciliation 
was  impossible.  Perhaps  she  had  not  quite  meant  to  say  that 
she  despised  him.  She  was  none  the  less  intensely  dissatisfied 
with  his  failure  to  achieve  any  of  those  things  which  she  felt 
that  he  was  capable  of  achieving ;  and  she  was  piqued  because 
her  influence  over  him  apparently  amounted  to  so  little.  She 
did  not  think  that  this  realization  of  his  faults  was  any  dispar- 
agement of  her  affection  for  him,  although  he  chose  to  take  it 

78 


that  way.  All  that  happened  a  year  ago,  and  she  knew  that  she 
loved  him  still — not  rapturously  or  passionately,  perhaps,  not  as 
they  love  in  plays  and  novels,  but  with  a  constant  tenderness  of 
sorrowful  recollection.  Now,  however,  she  was  regretting  that 
confession  to  him  under  the  trees  in  Commonwealth  Avenue. 
He  would  take  it  amiss — indeed,  had  she  not  seen  that  he  had 
done  so  ?  He  could  not  understand  why  she  should  still  love 
him  and  yet  not  be  able  to  forgive  him.  Well,  possibly  she 
could  hardly  understand  it  herself.  And  yet  down  deep  in  her 
heart  she  felt  that  it  was  the  truth,  and  that  her  resolution  was 
a  wise  one.  The  time  might  come  when  she  could  look  more 
leniently  upon  the  folly  of  a  wasted  career ;  but  she  could  never 
forget  her  disappointment,  and  the  remembrance  would  have 
imbittered  all  their  future.  It  is  its  irrevocableness  that  makes 
a  tragedy  of  life. 

There  was  one  person  who  thought  that  this  quarrel  was  an 
exceedingly  absurd  one.  The  relatives  on  both  sides  had  been 
shocked,  and  had  protested ;  but  finding  both  Philip  and  Mil- 
dred resolute,  and  having  affairs  of  their  own  to  interest  them, 
they  had  come  to  the  sensible  resolution  that  it  was  none  of 
their  business,  after  all.  If  Sibley  Lawrence  didn't  interfere, 
why  should^  any  one  else  ?  But  Daisy  Tredwell  still  clung  to 
the  idea  of  a  reconciliation.  If  two  people  cared  for  each  other, 
she  thought,  they  were  dreadfully  foolish  to  let  a  mere  whim 
separate  them.  Daisy  admired  Philip  Yates  immensely.  She 
didn't  care  whether  he  was  brilliant  or  not;  she  was  sure  that 
he  was  a  man  of  whom  any  girl  might  be  proud.  She  did  not 
hesitate  to  tell  Mildred  so,  and  to  scold  her  for  treating  him  so 
harshly.  "  Your  notions  are  altogether  too  lofty,"  Daisy  said. 

Mildred  bore  with  Daisy's  gibes  in  patience ;  but  she  did  not 
confide  in  her — on  this  subject,  at  least — although  she  was  very 
fond  of  her.  She  said  nothing  to  her  this  afternoon  of  having 
met  Philip. 

"  I  thought  I  would  run  in  just  for  a  moment,"  said  Daisy, 
"  though  it  is  almost  five  o'clock,  and  I  ought  to  be  getting 
home." 

"  I'm  glad  you  didn't  come  earlier.  I  have  just  been  making 
calls.  It's  a  relief  to  think  that  summer  is  almost  here." 

79 


"  Ob,  I  don't  mind  when  people  have  afternoons,  and  one 
doesn't  have  to  spend  all  one's  time  talking  to  those  one  goes 
to  see."  She  looked  at  Mildred  curiously,  with  her  head  droop- 
ing slightly  towards  her  right  shoulder  —  a  characteristic  atti- 
tude of  hers.  "  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "  you 
are  the  queerest  girl  in  the  world !" 

"  If  I  don't,  it  isn't  because  I  have  never  been  told  so.  What 
have  I  done  to  vex  you  now  ?" 

"  I  wouldn't  say  '  vex ;'  that  would  mean  that  I  am  angry. 
Suppose  I  say  that  you  have  annoyed  me." 

Mildred  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  smiled  at  the  earnest 
little  face  before  her,  framed  in  its  tangled  aureole  of  gold-red 
hair.  "  Well,  Daisy,"  she  asked,  "  why  don't  you  tell  me  what 
it's  all  about  ?" 

Miss  Tredwell  examined  the  handle  of  her  parasol  intently  for 
a  moment,  then  looked  up  suddenly.  "  Why  have  you  taken  up 
Mr.  Baretta  ?"  she  demanded. 

The  unexpectedness  of  this  question  brought  a  sudden  colour 
to  Mildred's  cheeks.  "  It  will  be  my  turn  to  be  annoyed  if  you 
talk  like  that.  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  such  a  remark." 

"  Come,  Mildred,  don't  try  to  humbug  me.  I  say  you  have 
taken  him  up.  Would  Mrs.  Chilton  ever  have  asked  him  to  come 
and  see  her  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you  ?" 

"  She  met  Mr.  Baretta  here,"  said  Mildred,  with  great  dignity. 
"  But  it  was  papa  who  asked  him — not  I.  Papa  says  he  is  a  re- 
markably intelligent  young  man." 

"  He  may  be  intelligent,  but  he  doesn't  know  how  to  behave. 
Why,  you  ought  to  have  seen  him  when  he  came  into  the  room 
at  Mrs.  Chilton's.  He  was  even  afraid  of  me.  Fancy  that !" 
And  Daisy  laughed. 

"  I  don't  see  anything  strange  in  that ;  you're  a  dangerous  per- 
son, you  know." 

"  Well,  but  everything  showed  that  he  was — not  a  gentleman." 

"  You  are  very  unkind,  Daisy,"  said  Mildred. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  it's  a  mean  thing  to  say.  But  isn't  it  true  ?" 
Daisy  fixed  her  bright  blue  eyes  on  her  friend  as  she  spoke,  with 
a  look  of  challenge. 

«  No— I  don't  think  it  is." 

80 


"  Ah,  but  if  he  were  a  gentleman  there  would  be  no  thinking 
about  it.  You  would  know  at  once." 

"  What  has  prejudiced  you  so  against  Mr.  Baretta,  Daisy  ?" 

"  Only  himself."  Daisy  laughed  as  she  said  this,  and  then 
went  on  with  great  earnestness,  "  No,  don't  think  it's  prejudice, 
Mildred.  I'm  willing  to  allow  something  to  your  odd  ideas  of 
doing  good  in  the  world,  and  all  that.  Your  father  is  so  dread- 
fully charitable  that  I  dare  say  you  inherit  it  from  him.  But  I 
am  positive  that  Mr.  Baretta  isn't  honest  or  sincere,  and  that  you 
will  both  regret  ever  having  had  anything  to  do  with  him." 

"  Daisy,  you  are  too  absurdly  unjust !"  cried  Mildred.  "  I  will 
not  allow  yod  to  talk  like  that.  You  have  no  reason  for  your 
suspicions." 

"  Oh,  I  know  that.  But  instinct  is  often  better  than  reason. 
He's  not  a  gentleman." 

"  But  people  who  are  not  gentlemen  can  be  honest." 

"  Not  if  they  pretend  that  they  are  gentlemen,"  said  Daisy, 
with  an  air  of  triumph  over  the  irrefutable  nature  of  her  logic. 
"  And  Mrs.  Chilton  says  that  he  told  you  he  was  a  Hungarian  of 
noble  family." 

"  Oh  no — he  has  said  nothing  to  me  on  the  subject  at  all.  I 
think  that  papa  has  gathered  something  of  the  sort  from  chance 
remarks  of  his.  And  I'm  sure,  Daisy,  I  think  it's  very  nice  of 
him  to  be  so  unassuming." 

"  You  are  perfectly  ridiculous,  Mildred.     Noble  family  !" 

"  Well,  his  father  was  a  refugee  at  the  time  of  the  revolution. 
Mr.  Baretta  has  said  that  much,  and  I  believe  him." 

"  Oh,  so  do  I.  Don't  think  I  would  dispute  that.  I  wonder 
whether  it  was  the  sheriff  or  the  hangman  that  he  took  refuge 
from." 

"  Daisy  !"  cried  Mildred,  sharply. 

"  Yes,  get  angry  with  me,  do  !"  said  Daisy,  with  a  little  mock- 
ing laugh.  "  A  rude,  scowling,  unknown  foreigner  is  worth  quar- 
relling over,  isn't  he  ?" 

"  There  !"  said  Mildred,  trying  to  smile  herself,  but  not  suc- 
ceeding very  well.     "  Let  us  agree  to  say  no  more  about  it.     I 
am  not  so  much  interested  in  Mr.  Baretta  that  I  can  talk  of  noth- 
ing else — as  you  seem  to  be." 
*  81 


"  Oh,  you  amuse  me  when  you  try  to  be  disagreeable.  It  isn't 
in  you."  Daisy  went  over  to  her  friend  and  gave  her  a  friendly 
squeeze.  "  You  haven't  a  bad  temper,  like  mine,  and  a  tongue 
that  is  always  saying  things  it  ought  not  to  say." 

After  Daisy  had  gone,  however,  Mildred  thought  of  this  con- 
versation more  than  once.  It  was  strange,  indeed,  that  it  should 
make  any  particular  impression  upon  her.  Everybody  knew 
that  Daisy  was  a  great  chatterer  and  full  of  all  sorts  of  fancies. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  some  instinct  told  her  that  her  friend  was 
right  in  saying  that  Baretta  was  not  a  gentleman.  She  had  her- 
self observed  his  ignorance  of  social  usages,  but  had  tried  to 
excuse  him  by  bearing  in  mind  such  facts  in  his  career  as  he  had 
imparted  to  her.  She  felt  how  difficult  the  struggle  must  have 
been,  and  this  feeling  tempered  either  resentment  or  amusement 
at  his  mistakes.  Still  she  recalled,  now  that  the  question  came 
definitely  before  her,  more  than  one  instance  in  which  he  had 
said  things  it  was  hard  to  think  that  a  man  of  good  birth  would 
say  or  do,  no  matter  under  what  stress  of  circumstances  he  had 
been  placed.  She  was  a  little  indignant  even  yet  as  she  remem- 
bered how  he  had  asked  her  at  Mrs.  Chilton's  if  she  came  because 
she  knew  he  was  to  be  there.  Yes,  it  might  be  that  Daisy  was 
shrewder  than  she  in  reading  this  strange  young  man's  character. 
Her  father  had  a  very  good  opinion  of  him,  and  possibly  she  was 
influenced  by  this,  although  she  recognized  her  father's  general 
attitude  towards  the  world,  which  was  that  of  absent-minded 
good -nature,  as  interfering  slightly  with  his  competence  as  a 
judge.  No  one  could  answer  a  question  of  the  sort  more  effec- 
tively than  he  if  it  were  put  to  him  directly  ;  but  he  was  too  con- 
stantly in  an  abstracted  mood  to  put  any  questions  to  himself. 
He  thought  Baretta  was  a  promising  young  fellow,  who  deserved 
better  opportunities  than  he  had  hitherto  enjoyed,  and  it  was  a  » 
part  of  his  general  philanthropy  to  give  him  those  opportunities 
so  far  as  he  could.  When  he  asked  Baretta  to  stay  to  dinner  it 
was  because  he  wanted  to  talk  with  him — to  draw  him  out,  to 
give  his  intellectual  nature  a  chance  to  expand.  Of  course  he 
thought  that  this  Socialistic  crusade  in  which  the  young  man  had 
enlisted  was  all  nonsense.  But  in  his  large-hearted  tolerance  he 
could  content  himself  with  only  a  vague  protest  against  even 

82 


Socialism.  It  was  a  foolish  theory,  no  doubt,  but  it  wasn't  likely 
to  do  much  harm.  The  thing  to  do  was  to  get  this  apostle  of 
the  new  creed  interested  in  something  else.  It  was  for  this  rea- 
son that  lie  had  taken  pains  to  have  him  meet  Mrs.  Chilton,  of 
whose  position  in  the  world  of  literature  he  had  perhaps  an  ex- 
aggerated idea.  Mr.  Lawrence  was  a  cultivated  man,  but  he  was 
too  busy  with  his  humanitarian  schemes  to  know  much  about 
modern  authors.  He  used  to  say  that  Fielding  and  Swift,  Addi- 
son  and  Pope,  were  contemporaries  of  his.  Yet  it  was  charac- 
teristic of  him  that  his  house  should  be  one  of  the  very  few 
among  the  "best  houses"  where  people  like  Mrs.  Chilton — peo- 
ple who  wrote  or  painted  or  acted  for  a  living — could  be  met  on 
terms  of  equality.  There  was  no  Mrs.  Lawrence  to  institute  a 
"  salon  " — Mildred's  mother  would  have  had  a  horror  of  such  an 
institution  if  she  had  been  alive — but  in  a  casual  fashion  people 
with  something  more  than  birth  or  money  to  commend  them 
were  made  welcome  at  the  fine  old  house  in  Mount  Vernon  Street, 
and  Mildred  grew  up  without  those  prejudices  of  exclusiveness 
which  so  many  of  her  friends  inherited.  They  thought  she  was 
"  the  queerest  girl  in  the  world,"  although  not  for  the  same 
reason  that  Daisy  Tredwell  did. 

Mildred  was  well  enough  acquainted  with  her  father's  pecu- 
liarities to  know  that  the  question  which  she  asked  him  that 
evening  would  quite  take  him  aback ;  nevertheless  some  potent 
impulse  urged  her  to  ask  it. 

"  Papa,"  she  said,  thoughtfully,  "  do  you  think  Mr.  Baretta  is 
a  gentleman  ?" 

"  Eh  ?  What  ?"  cried  Mr.  Lawrence,  looking  at  her  in  aston- 
ishment. They  two  were  dining  together,  which  was  something 
that  did  not  happen  very  often.  It  was  impossible  for  Mr.  Law- 
rence  to  resist  inviting  the  most  unexpected  people  at  all  sorts  of 
times  and  on  all  sorts  of  occasions. 

"  I  mean,  do  you  believe  that  he  was  ever  really  the  son  of  some 
Hungarian  count  or  prince,  as  he  says  ?" 

"  Well,  Mildred,"  said  her  father,  with  a  rather  disturbed  ex- 
pression, "it's  singular  that  you  should  think  of  such  a  question 
as  that.  To  tell  the  truth,  the  young  man  has  never  said  anything 
about  it,  one  way  or  the  other.  I  only  know  what — what  he  has 

83 


implied  in  his  conversation.     Ah,  I  must  ask  him  to  give  an  ac- 
count of  himself." 

"  Oh !"  said  Mildred,  with  a  little  cry  of  dismay,  "  I  didn't 
mean  to  make  you  think  I  doubted  his  word." 

"  Not  at  all,  my  dear;  not  at  all,"  said  Mr.  Lawrence,  blandly. 
"  Only  one  can't  be  too  careful,  you  know,  in  making  acquaint- 
ances, especially  with  foreigners."  And  it  never  occurred  to 
him  that,  as  a  father,  he  might  have  recognized  this  important 
truth  before. 

84 


CHAPTER  IX 
BARETTA  IS  CONFIDENT 

SEVERAL  weeks  passed  away  before  Philip  Yates  saw  Baretta 
again.  Once  or  twice  he  wondered  vaguely  what  had  become 
of  him,  but  it  must  be  confessed  that  he  did  not  care  very  much. 
A  man  must  be  an  ass,  he  thought,  to  talk  as  Baretta  had  talked 
at  their  last  meeting.  What  perplexed  him  most  was  how  Mil- 
dred Lawrence  could  tolerate  such  a  fellow.  It  was  just  like 
her  father  to  pick  up  all  sorts  of  odd  acquaintances;  but  surely 
he  need  not  introduce  them  to  his  daughter.  The  explanation 
occurred  to  him  that  possibly  Baretta  might  have  exaggerated 
the  degree  of  intimacy  which  he  enjoyed,  and  this  gave  him  a 
melancholy  consolation.  Philip  felt  that  he  was  in  need  of  con- 
solation of  some  sort.  He  was  not  the  man  to  mope  or  to  com- 
plain to  others ;  but  youth  does  not  readily  bear  its  burdens 
with  the  silent  patience  characteristic  of  age.  If  he  could  not 
talk  about  the  pain  which  was  gnawing  his  bosom,  he  would 
have  liked,  nevertheless,  to  have  some  one  understand  without 
talking  how  bitter  it  was.  No  doubt  the  Spartan  boy  was  sus- 
tained by  the  belief  that  his  heroism  would  not  pass  unwept, 
unhonoured,  and  unsung.  Philip,  however,  had  no  friend  of 
either  sex  to  give  him  tacit  sympathy  at  this  crisis.  He  had 
fallen  out  of  the  way  of  confiding  in  his  mother  or  his  sisters ; 
the  knowledge  that  they  thought  his  career  a  failure  made  this 
impossible ;  and  in  any  case  a  man  does  not  say  much  to  his 
relatives  about  his  love  affairs,  because  their  attitude  is  pretty 
sure  to  be  one  of  disapproval.  They  had  liked  Mildred  and 
had  felt  that  it  was  a  very  suitable  match ;  but  when  she  broke 
it  off  they  were  very  angry  with  her.  Mrs.  Yates  had  even  said 

85 


that  she  had  hoped  she  would  never  see  the  girl  or  hear  her 
name  again.  Perhaps  the  fact  that  she  recognized  the  justice 
of  Mildred's  feeling  about  Philip  made  her  all  the  more  angry. 
It  was  obvious,  therefore,  that  she  would  not  have  much  pa- 
tience with  her  son  for  cherishing  the  folly  of  loving  Mildred 
still.  As  for  other  women  there  were  few  with  whom  Philip 
was  on  intimate  terms.  He  was  a  more  or  less  frequent  visitor 
at  the  houses  of  several  young  married  women  who  were  not  so 
devoted  to  their  husbands  as  to  find  no  enjoyment  in  the  com- 
panionship of  other  men  sufficiently  good  -  looking  and  agree- 
able ;  but  these  acquaintances  were  too  superficial  to  admit  of 
any  sentiment  more  serious  than  elusive  and  flattering  homage. 
Besides,  what  woman  cares  to  be  told  by  a  man  how  much  he 
admires  another?  Women  are  sometimes  made  victims  in  this 
way,  and  then  they  retaliate  by  compelling  their  tormentor  to 
transfer  his  affections  to  them.  The  men  whom  Philip  knew 
best,  too,  had  never  been  made  the  recipients  of  his  confidence 
as  to  his  personal  concerns.  He  had  a  frankness  of  manner 
which  made  him  popular  with  them,  but  this  did  not  interfere 
with  his  capacity  for  keeping  his  own  secrets.  It  was  known, 
of  course,  that  he  had  been  engaged  to  Miss  Lawrence,  but  spec- 
ulations upon  the  cause  of  their  separation  were  not  broached 
in  his  presence.  And  thus  he  bore  his  hurt  in  silence. 

Of  course,  if  Philip  had  been  a  hero,  he  would  have  achieved 
some  great  feat  of  mental  prowess  at  this  particular  juncture,  and 
convinced  Mildred  of  the  injustice  of  her  treatment  of  him  ;  and 
then  she  would  have  been  repentant  and  sorrowful,  and  he  would 
have  been  magnanimous  and  forgiving.  But  events  in  these 
days  seem  to  have  some  difficulty  in  attaining  heroic  size,  how- 
ever large  one's  ambitions  may  be.  Cleverness  of  one  sort  or 
another  is  so  common  that  even  genius  is  depressed  by  it.  "  Go 
where  glory  waits  thee,"  is  brave  advice ;  but  suppose  one  looks 
in  every  direction  and  doesn't  discover  glory  waiting  anywhere  ? 
Philip  knew  that  he  had  a  certain  amount  of  talent,  but  he  saw 
no  way  of  exercising  it  that  would  make  him  famous.  Even 
signed  articles  in  the  magazines  confer  only  a  limited  distinction. 
Then  he  laughed  at  his  own  folly  in  assuming  that  anything  he 
could  do  would  win  back  Mildred  now.  She  had  seen  very 

86 


clearly  what  a  worthless  fellow  he  was.  Perhaps  she  might 
come  to  think  better  of  him  some  day,  but  there  would  still  be 
the  memory  of  his  bitter  words,  which  she  had  said  she  could 
never  forgive,  to  separate  them.  Ah,  why  should  he  persist  in 
the  folly  of  loving  her  ?  This  was  a  question  which  he  often 
asked  himself,  and  he  could  only  answer  it  by  saying  that  love 
was  a  wholly  involuntary  emotion. 

The  worst  of  it  was  that  he  was  justifying  Mildred's  reproaches 
by  an  utterly  idle  and  vacuous  mode  of  life.  It  was  hardly  an 
excuse  to  say  that  success  was  beyond  his  reach,  or  that  since 
he  was  parted  from  her  it  had  no  charms  for  him.  The  casuist- 
ry of  such  an  argument  was  only  too  obvious.  Nevertheless,  he 
kept  postponing  the  task  of  making  a  break,  as  he  called  it. 
Perhaps  he  would  have  more  energy  when  autumn  came.  It 
was  all  nonsense  for  a  man  to  make  a. slave  of  himself  during 
the  hot  weather,  when  he  could  just  as  well  take  a  long  holiday. 
Philip  was  in  perfect  health,  but  he  began  to  persuade  himself 
that  his  physical  rather  than  his  intellectual  system  needed  brac- 
ing. He  was  confirmed  in  this  belief  when  the  editor  of  the 
Mail  wrote  him  a  note  saying  that  his  last  batch  of  reviews 
hardly  came  up  to  the  mark.  If  he  couldn't  do  hack  work  like 
that  something  must  indeed  be  wrong  with  him.  It  was  on  a 
warm  evening  early  in  June  when  he  got  this  note.  He  had 
gone  to  his  rooms  after  a  pull  on  the  river  to  dress  for  dinner, 
and  in  the  intervals  of  his  leisurely  toilet  he  reflected  upon  the 
editor's  decision,  and  was  more  than  ever  convinced  that  he 
needed  a  change.  He  would  get  away  from  everything  and 
everybody ;  he  would  go  where  he  could  find  some  sort  of  ex- 
citement. It  was  in  this  frame  of  mind  that  he  issued  forth 
into  Livingstone  Place,  where  the  first  person  he  saw,  standing 
on  the  pavement  directly  before  the  door,  was  Baretta. 

"Oh,  were  you  coming  to  see  me?"  asked  Philip.  The 
young  men  had  not  parted  last  on  very  good  terms,  but  Philip 
was  not  a  man  to  cherish  resentments.  Besides,  in  his  present 
mood  almost  any  one's  companionship  was  preferable  to  being 
alone. 

Baretta  looked  confused.  "  No — not  exactly.  I — I  was  just 
strolling  about." 

87 


"  You  were  the  last  man  I  expected  to  see." 

"  Why  ?"  Baretta  gave  a  laugh  in  which  there  was  not  much 
merriment.  "  Well,  I  suppose  I  am  off  my  beat,"  he  added. 
"  I  belong  in  the  slums." 

"  See  here,  Baretta,  I  wish  you'd  cut  all  that.  I  don't  know 
whether  you  want  to  quarrel  with  me,  or  what  you  mean,  but  I 
am  going  to  be  so  confoundedly  good-natured  that  you  can't 
doit." 

"  Quarrel  with  you  ?  I  assure  you  I  had  no  such  idea.  I 
was  only  afraid  you  would  forget  the  difference  in  our  station." 
Baretta  drew  down  the  corners  of  his  mouth  as  he  spoke,  and 
the  ominous  scowl  which  was  so  characteristic  of  his  face  even 
in  moments  of  abstraction  gathered  between  his  eyes. 

Philip  made  a  mental  note  of  the  fact  that  Baretta  was  more 
of  an  ass  than  he  had  supposed,  and  then  reflected  that  if  he 
wanted  diversion  here  was  his  opportunity.  He  was  coming 
actually  to  dislike  this  young  man,  and  yet  he  was  conscious  of 
an  indefinable  feeling  of  interest  in  him.  Was  this  because  he 
associated  him  in  his  mind  with  Mildred  Lawrence  ?  Surely  such 
an  association  must  be  productive  rather  of  pain  than  of  pleas- 
ure. But  whatever  the  reason,  he  paid  no  heed  to  this  taunt. 
"  Come  along  and  dine  with  me,"  was  what  he  said. 

"  Oh,  I — I  can't,"  stammered  Baretta,  rather  taken  aback  by 
this  proffer  of  hospitality  in  response  to  his  rude  speech. 

"Nonsense — I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you.  I  sha'n't  ask 
you  again ;  I  am  going  away  from  Boston  in  a  few  days." 

"  For  good  ?"  The  frown  gave  way  to  something  like  a  smile 
as  Baretta  asked  this  question. 

"  You  look  as  if  you  wanted  me  to  say  yes.  But  although  I 
won't  quarrel  with  you  I  can't  be  quite  so  obliging  as  all  that. 
Come  over  to  the  club." 

"  Well,  you  are  very  kind,"  said  Baretta,  rather  awkwardly. 
"  I  didn't  suppose  they  let  outsiders  in." 

Philip  stared  at  him.  "  Oh,  you  are  my  guest,"  he  said.  "  I 
dare  say  you'll  be  such  a  celebrity  before  long  that  one  will 
have  to  speak  for  you  a  week  ahead." 

"  Oh  no — not  quite  that.  But  my  plans  are  coining  on  very 
well — very  well  indeed."  There  was  a  note  of  triumphant  sat- 

88 


isfaction  in  his  voice  which  Philip  could  not  very  well  resent,  al- 
though somehow  he  fancied  that  his  companion  regarded  him 
as  one  of  the  conquered. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  dryly,  "you  and  Mrs.  Chilton  have  got  on  well 
together." 

"  Mrs.  Chilton  has  gone  to  Europe,  but  I  have  other  friends 
left." 

"  No  doubt.  Don't  you  enjoy  a  walk  across  the  Common  at 
this  time  of  year  and  this  time  of  day  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  very  pretty.  As  I  was  saying,"  went  on  Baretta, 
raising  his  voice,  and  seeming  actually  to  swell  physically  with 
a  sense  of  his  own  importance,  "I  have  been  getting  on  re- 
markably well.  I  find  the  city  ripe  for  Socialism  to  a  surpris- 
ing extent,  and  in  the  most  unexpected  quarters." 

Philip  laughed.     "  That's  to  be  the  new  fad,  is  it  ?" 

"  Fad  ?  What  do  you  mean  by  fad  ?  Why  should  you  call 
it  that  ?  If  you  think  I'm  not  in  earnest  you're  very  much  mis- 
taken." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  don't  dispute  your  earnestness  for  a 
moment.  It's  the  others  I  am  thinking  about." 

"  You're  just  like  Ditton.  He  doesn't  think  I  can  do  any 
good  among  the  upper  classes — as  they  call  themselves." 

"  Well,  candidly,  I  agree  with  Ditton.  Just  think  what 
you're  doing,  Baretta.  You're  asking  them  to  assist  at  their 
own  destruction." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  am  trying  to  save  them.  If  they  see 
what  Socialism  really  means  they  may  take  a  friendly  and 
reasonable  attitude  towards  it  before  it  is  too  late." 

"  Oh,  I  see ;  it's  a  flag  of  truce  that  you  carry."  Philip 
laughed  again.  "  Don't  think  I  wish  to  discourage  you.  But 
make  your  hay  while  you  can  and  try  to  be  content  with  a  light 
crop." 

When  they  sat  down  to  dinner  at  the  Pilgrim  Club — they 
had  a  small  table  by  the  window,  and  between  them  were  two 
long  candlesticks  with  tiny  red  shades,  reflecting  with  a  cheer- 
ful glow  the  soft  light  from  the  burning  tapers,  which  mingled 
pleasantly  with  the  fading  light  of  day — Baretta  gave  Philip 
a  rapid  outline  of  his  plans.  It  was,  of  course,  too  late  in  the 

89 


season  to  do  much  now  ;  through  the  summer  he  would  stick  to 
his  old  work  at  the  Socialist  meetings  and  in  the  slums.  But 
Mrs.  Chilton  had  encouraged  the  idea  of  his  giving  lectures  in 
the  autumn,  and  had  said  she  would  speak  about  it  to  all  her 
friends.  And  a  man  whom  he  had  met  at  her  house,  Mr.  Allen, 
wanted  him  to  come  out  to  Brookline  and  talk  to  the  Tuesday 
Afternoon  Club.  Of  course  Yates  had  heard  of  Orrin  Fox 
Allen.  And  then  there  was  the  Zola  Society — those  people 
would  be  interested  in  Socialism  from  the  realistic  point  of 
view.  Oh,  there  would  be  a  great  field  for  missionary  efforts, 
Baretta  thought. 

"  I  shall  have  to  come  and  hear  you,"  said  Philip,  smiling. 
"  Don't  you  care  for  claret  ?  What  will  you  have  ?" 

Baretta  was  not  devoted  to  the  pleasures  of  the  table — which 
was  fortunate  for  one  who  so  seldom  enjoyed  them — and  he 
answered  truly  enough  that  he  did  not  care.  He  added  that  he 
never  drank  wine. 

"  Oh,  well,  I  will  send  for  a  bottle  of  Apollinaris.  You  don't 
miss  much  in  refusing  this,"  said  Philip,  setting  down  his  glass. 
"  I  don't  see  why  a  decent  claret  need  be  quite  so  hard  to  get 
in  this  country.  They'll  be  wanting  to  make  you  a  member  of 
the  Zola  Society,  you  know,  Baretta.  Socialism  will  just  suit 
them." 

"  I  should  not  join,"  said  the  young  man  promptly,  taking 
this  remark  seriously.  "  I  can  do  my  work  best  as  an  outsider. 
Mr.  Lawrence  thinks  that.  Oh !"  he  added,  turning  red,  "  I — I 
beg  your  pardon." 

Philip,  too,  changed  colour,  but  he  faced  without  wincing  the 
awkward  situation  produced  by  Baretta's  blunder  and  his  in- 
excusable lack  of  tact  in  aggravating  it.  "  Ah,  I  suppose  you 
mean  Sibley  Lawrence,"  he  said,  blandly.  "  I  didn't  fancy  that 
he  would  go  in  for  Socialism." 

"  He  doesn't,"  said  Baretta.  It  surprised  him  that  Yates 
should  be  willing  to  talk  about  the  Lawrences  in  this  way ;  he 
had  been  anticipating  an  angry  protest  at  this  chance  mention 
.of  Mr.  Lawrence's  name.  It  will  be  seen  that  Baretta's  concep- 
tions of  the  character  of  a  gentleman  were  still  somewhat  in- 
adequate. "  That  is,"  he  went  on,  "  he  thinks  that  I  go  too 

90 


far.  But  he  believes  that  some  things  in  the  present  social 
structure  are  radically  wrong,  and  that  it  can  do  people  no 
harm  to  hear  the  extreme  view.  '  I  want  them  to  believe  about 
a  quarter  part  of  what  you  say ' — that's  the  way  he  puts  it." 

"  They  will  believe  more  than  that — at  first." 

"  If  they  think  that  we  are  not  in  earnest  they  will  find  out 
their  mistake,"  declared  Baretta.  "  But  I  have  still  another 
opening,  and  I  wanted  to  ask  your  advice  about  that.  I  met 
Mr.  Binney,  the  editor  of  the  Mail,  a  few  days  ago,  and  he  sug- 
gested a  series  of  articles  on  Socialism." 

"  Oh,  write  them,  by  all  means,"  said  Philip.  He  did  not  think 
it  necessary  to  add  that  he  himself  had  suggested  writing  a  sim- 
ilar series,  and  had  been  told  by  Binney  that  the  public  was  not 
interested  in  that  sort  of  thing.  But  he  could  not  help  think- 
ing that  this  young  man  seemed  destined  to  be  an  unconscious 
rival  of  his  at  every  step,  and  he  was  aware  of  a  curiously  im- 
personal desire  to  know  how  the  rivalry  would  end. 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  might  do  that,"  said  Baretta,  complacently. 

Philip  smiled  again  rather  bitterly,  and  led  the  conversation 
to  other  subjects.  But  when,  an  hour  later,  his  guest  took  his 
leave,  excusing  himself  on  the  plea  of  an  engagement  for  the 
evening,  he  recurred  to  Binney's  proposition,  and  told  Baretta 
that  it  was  a  great  opening  for  him.  "  I  don't  mean  that  you 
will  make  many  converts,"  he  said,  "  but  that  it  will  be  an  im- 
mense advantage  for  you  personally.  And  when  you  get  your 
chance  don't  throw  it  away,  as  I  have  done." 

"  Oh,  you !"  exclaimed  Baretta,  turning  in  the  doorway  and 
looking  back  at  him.  "  You  don't  need  to  have  chances." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  Philip  reflected  a  moment,  as  if  the 
question  were  really  a  very  grave  one.  "  Well,  that's  very 
lucky  for  me,"  he  added.  "  Good-night,  Baretta.  Come  and 
see  me  in  the  fall." 

Baretta  turned  the  corner  by  the  Pilgrim  Club  and  ascended 
the  hill  in  the  direction  of  Mount  Vernon  Street  with  a  swelling 
sense  of  his  own  superiority  to  the  rest  of  the  world.  Here  was 
Yates,  one  of  the  men  whom  he  had  envied,  actually  envying  him. 
Yates  was  a  mighty  good  fellow,  of  course,  even  if  now  and  then 
he  was  unconsciously  patronizing,  but  he  was  not  brilliant ;  and 


if  he  had  had  to  make  his  own  way  in  the  world  he  would  hardly 
have  commended  himself  to  the  notice  of  Mr.  Lawrence  and 
Mrs.  Chilton  and  the  editor  of  the  Mail. 

Mr.  Lawrence  was  at  home,  the  grave  man-servant  told  him 
when  he  rang  the  bell  at  the  house  in  Mount  Vernon  Street. 
After  waiting  a  moment  in  the  reception-room  at  the  left  of  the 
hall  he  was  bidden  to  come  up-stairs  to  the  library.  Here  he 
found  that  gentleman,  sitting  at  a  capacious  mahogany  table 
which  occupied  the  centre  of  the  room. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Baretta,"  he  said,  looking  up.  "  Pardon  me  a 
moment  while  I  finish  this  note.  Take  that  chair — you  will 
find  it  more  comfortable." 

"  Perhaps  I  disturb  you,"  said  the  young  man,  hesitating. 

"  Oh  no — not  at  all."  The  pen  scratched  over  the  paper  a 
minute  longer;  then  the  writer  folded  the  note  and  addressed 
it.  "  Now,  my  dear  sir,  I  am  quite  at  your  service." 

"I  only  came  for  the  book  you  were  going  to  lend  me — The 
French  Revolution,  you  know." 

"  Ah,  yes — Carlyle.  You'll  find  him  picturesque,  but  you 
must  take  what  he  says  with  a  grain  of  salt."  Mr.  Lawrence 
rose  and  selected  the  volumes  from  the  case.  "There  they  are; 
you  needn't  hurry  about  returning  them.  But  don't  go — I 
should  like  to  have  a  little  chat  with  you.  Have  you  decided  to 
give  those  lectures  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  if  you  think  best." 

"  Don't  put  the  responsibility  upon  me,"  said  Mr.  Lawrence, 
smiling.  "  You  might  fail,  and  then  you  would  blame  me  for  it." 

«  Oh,  I  don't  think  I  shall  fail." 

"  Well,  well,  confidence  is  the  main  thing,  after  all.  I  don't 
mean  to  doubt  your  success." 

"  There  is  another  matter  I  want  to  tell  you  about,  sir," 
Baretta  continued.  "  The  Mail  has  made  me  an  offer  to  write 
a  series  of  articles  on  Socialism." 

"  Indeed !  A  very  good  idea  of  Binney's.  Do  you  know 
him  ?" 

"  He  asked  me — personally.  I  met  him  at  Mr.  Allen's — Mr. 
Orrin  Fox  Allen." 

"  I  see,  I  see."  Mr.  Lawrence  gazed  reflectively  at  the  ceil- 

92 


ing  a  moment,  and  then  added :  "  I  think  you  will  get  on,  Mr. 
Baretta ;  yes,  I  think  you  will  get  on." 

"  I  am  glad  to  have  your  approval,  sir — yours  and  your 
daughter's." 

"  Ah  !"  Mr.  Lawrence  recalled  at  this  point  his  conversation 
with  Mildred  about  Baretta's  antecedents,  and  looked  at  the 
young  man  a  little  less  genially  than  before.  "  You  have 
spoken  to  her  about  this  ?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  She  goes  away  to-morrow — I  dare  say  you  will  not  see  her 
again.  But  I  shall  be  very  pleased  to  tell  her  of  your  good- 
fortune." 

Baretta  did  not  receive  this  news  with  a  joyful  countenance. 
To  be  sure,  he  did  not  see  her  very  often,  but  he  felt  as  if  her 
absence  would  somehow  make  a  great  difference  to  him. 
"  Where  does  she  go  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  to  Beverly,  as  usual ;  we  have  a  house  there."  But  Mr. 
Lawrence  did  not  add,  "  You  must  come  and  see  us,"  as  Baretta 
was  insanely  hoping  that  he  might.  Indeed,  it  seemed  to  the 
young  man  as  if  he  turned  the  conversation  into  another  chan- 
nel rather  abruptly  by  asking,  "  Do  you  still  keep  up  those 
Sunday  meetings  on  the  Common  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  I  haven't  been  much  of  late.  That  is  Mr. 
Ditton's  field  of  work." 

"  And  you  and  he  follow  different  lines,  eh  ?" 

"He  doesn't  believe  in  the  lectures  at  all.  But  one  could 
hardly  expect  that  he  would.  He  is  a — rather  rough  sort  of 
person,  don't  you  know." 

"  Ah !  I  had  supposed  he  was  an  educated  man.  He  is— or 
was — a  clergyman,  I  believe." 

Baretta  coloured,  and  wondered  if  this  were  meant  for  a.  re- 
proof. "Of  course  I  did  not  mean  to  prejudice  you  against 
him,  Mr.  Lawrence." 

"By-the-way,  Mr.  Baretta,"  Mr.  Lawrence  began  suddenly, 
ignoring  this  last  remark,  "  you  have  never  told  me  much  of 
anything  about  yourself." 

"  About  myself  ?"  asked  the  young  man,  flushing  again.  "  Oh, 
well — there  isn't  much  to  tell." 

93 


"  Your  father  was  a  Hungarian,  you  once  said.  I  suppose  he 
came  over  here  at  the  time  of  the  trouble  in  1848." 

"  Yes,  sir,  yes — that  was  it,"  answered  Baretta,  with  an  eager- 
ness which  struck  his  listener  as  rather  odd.  "  There  were 
complications — of  a  political  nature." 

"I  see,  I  see.  He  must  have  known  Kossuth  and  Gorgei 
and  the  rest  of  them." 

"  I — I  dare  say  he  did.  He  never  talked  much  to  me  about 
the — about  those  matters.  It  was  when  he  was  quite  young — 
long  before  I  was  born." 

"  His  experiences  must  have  been  most  interesting.  But  his 
family — did  he  not  communicate  with  them  afterwards  ?  I  had 
the  impression  that  there  was  an  estate  involved — I  don't  recall 
now  exactly  how  I  obtained  it." 

"  Oh  yes,  something  of  the  sort — I  never  understood  myself. 
There  were  family  complications,  and  some  doubt  about  the — 
the  succession." 

"  There  was  a  title  involved  ?"  Baretta  said  nothing,  and  Mr. 
Lawrence  took  his  silence  to  mean  assent.  "  Well,  you  ought  to 
go  over  and  look  into  it.  There  Avould  be  no  difficulty  now.  It 
is  too  bad  that  your  father  did  not  live  to  see  Austria  and  Hun- 
gary reconciled." 

"  Yes — it  is,"  said  Baretta.  The  turn  which  the  conversation 
was  taking  made  him  very  uneasy.  He  was  willing  that  people 
should  cherish  exaggerated  ideas  of  his  family  connections,  but 
still  he  wanted  to  be  able  to  say  that  he  never  indulged  in  direct 
untruths  on  this  point.  He  had  been  obliged  to  draw  upon  his 
imagination  in  calling  his  father  a  political  refugee.  That,  how- 
ever, was  a  comparatively  venial  falsehood ;  nor  was  he  respon- 
sible for  the  inferences  of  other  people. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  suddenly  and  Mildred  came 
into  the  room.  "  Oh,  papa — "  she  began.  Then  she  saw  Baretta, 
and  blushed,  and  stopped  short.  "  I  beg  your  pardon  for  being 
so  abrupt;  I  thought  you  were  alone.  How  do  you  do,  Mr. 
Baretta  ?"  she  added,  turning  to  the  visitor. 

Baretta  rose  and  extended  his  hand  before  he  observed  that 
she  had  not  extended  hers.  He  dropped  it  to  his  side  instantly, 
with  a  bitter  pang  of  humiliation.  She  was  no  longer  going  to 

94 


be  kind  to  him — was  that  it  ?  Who  had  been  prejudicing  her 
against  him  ?  For  a  moment  he  thought  of  Yates ;  but  that  was 
clearly  absurd.  He  felt  certain,  however,  that  some  adverse  in- 
fluence was  at  work. 

"  Your  father  tells  me  you  are  going  away,"  he  murmured, 
unconsciously  clenching  his  fist. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Mildred.  "  It  is  quite  time  to  be  out  of  the 
city.  We  have  had  several  very  hot  days  already." 

"  Some  of  us  manage  to  live  through  them  just  the  same," 
cried  Baretta,  bitterly. 

Mr.  Lawrence  and  his  daughter  both  looked  at  him  when  he 
said  this  with  an  expression  of  astonishment.  In  the  moment 
of  silence  which  followed  Baretta  wished  that  the  earth  would 
swallow  him.  Now  he  had  indeed  offended  her  forever. 

"  It's  a  notion — of  course  it's  a  notion,"  said  Mr.  Lawrence. 
"  I  will  come  to  you  in  the  drawing-room  in  a  minute,  Mildred. 
Yes,  yes — one  can  be  quite  comfortable  here  in  Boston." 

"  I — I  must  be  going,"  stammered  Baretta,  reaching  out  for 
his  hat.  Then  his  eyes  met  Mildred's  with  an  appealing  glance. 
"  Good-bye,"  he  said. 

"  Good-bye,  Mr.  Baretta."  But  she  did  not  even  then  offer 
to  shake  hands  with  him,  nor  did  she  say  anything  about  his 
coming  to  see  her  in  the  autumn. 

95 


CHAPTER  X 
"NO  ONE  WILL  EVER  LOVE  YOU  AS  I  DO" 

THE  day  had  been  intensely  hot,  as  days  in  June  often  are, 
and  even  after  the  sun  had  gone  down  the  dusty  pavements  and 
the  close  brick  walls  seemed  to  reflect  its  burning  rays.  In  Ar- 
ragon  Street  doors  and  windows  were  flung  wide  open ;  and 
from  them  issued  blasts  of  warm  air,  mingled  with  the  sickening 
odours  of  refuse  in  the  primary  stages  of  decay.  It  was  Sunday 
evening,  and  the  women  had  let  the  dirty  dishes  accumulate  in 
the  kitchen  sink  unwashed,  where  the  buzzing  of  flies,  no  less 
than  the  stench,  attested  their  presence.  Some  of  these  women 
were  now  sitting  in  the  doorways  or  leaning  out  of  the  windows 
— their  coarse  red  arms  bared  to  the  elbows  and  their  gowns  in 
various  stages  of  disarrangement.  Many  of  the  younger  ones 
had  gone,  attired  in  cheap  finery  which  added  to  their  discom- 
fort and  emphasized  their  unattractiveness  alike  to  nose  and  eye, 
to  stroll  slowly  eastward  in  the  direction  of  the  Common,  and 
the  more  fortunate  among  them  were  riding  westward  with  their 
"  fellers "  in  the  open  cars  in  the  direction  of  Franklin  Park. 
These  young  men,  too,  would  not  have  commended  themselves 
to  persons  of  delicate  perceptions.  Their  faces  were  red,  and 
constant  streams  of  perspiration  had  made  them  greasy.  They 
had  generally  discarded  their  waistcoats  or  had  put  on  thin  ones 
in  various  stages  of  soilure ;  and  as  collars  were  uncomfortable 
they  had  dispensed  with  those  useless  adornments,  and  had 
tucked  handkerchiefs  of  a  suspicious  hue  about  their  reeking 
necks.  The  men  who  stayed  at  home — for  the  most  part  fathers 
of  families — and  smoked  dirty  clay  pipes  or  chewed  tobacco, 
sitting  in  groups  about  the  door-steps,  had  neither  coats  nor 

96 


waistcoats  to  encumber  them,  their  sole  concession  to  the  pro- 
prieties of  the  day  being  a  brassy-looking  stud  in  the  neckband 
of  the  shirt. 

Peter  Dolan  was  one  of  these.  He  had  left  the  shelter  of  his 
own  vine  and  fig-tree  and  was  visiting  his  next-door  neighbour, 
Finnerty,  who  was  also  employed  in  the  iron  works  at  South 
Boston.  He  could  hear  the  shrill  voices  of  his  own  younger 
children,  and  when  they  grew  too  loud,  or  when  quarrelling 
reached  the  acute  stage  of  fisticuffs,  he  was  able  to  restore  a 
semblance  of  order  by  a  few  loud  oaths.  Mrs.  Dolan  sat  in  the 
darkness  within  the  doorway,  but  her  protests  had  little  effect. 
It  was  only  when  she  threatened  to  send  them  all  to  bed  that 
they  paid  any  attention  to  her,  and  her  failure  to  execute  the 
threat  soon  robbed  it  of  its  terrors.  On  the  same  principle, 
Dolan's  oaths  were  frequent  enough  to  lose  their  force.  But  he 
had  a  way  of  laying  about  him  with  his  fists  that  was  very  un- 
pleasant, and  when  he  was  only  a  single  door  away  the  contin- 
gency of  his  doing  so  could  not  be  considered  a  remote  one. 

"  So  it's  ordered  out  we  all  are  in  the  mornin',  Dolan,"  said 
Finnerty. 

Dolan  plastered  the  extreme  edge  of  the  curb  with  a  generous 
supply  of  tobacco-juice  before  he  spoke.  "  Yes,  dom  'em  !"  he 
said  at  last,  gruffly. 

"  It's  hard  whin  a  poor  man  has  to  give  up  his  job  loike 
that." 

"  They'd  been  afther  lockin'  us  out  next  wake  if  we  hadn't 
struck  this,  Finnerty.  Don't  ye  make  no  mistake  about  that." 

"  That's  what  Luck  says,  I  know,  but  the  boss  has  allus  been 
a  fair  man  to  me — I'll  say  that  fer  him." 

"  Och,  you  haven't  no  gumption  !"  said  Dolan,  contemptuously. 
"  Phwat  the  divvle  do  we  care  for  the  boss  ?  It's  him  that's 
ready  to  turn  us  out  and  put  in  a  lot  of  dom  scabs  fer  the  sake 
of  twinty-five  cints  a  day.  Let  him  go  to  hell — that's  what  I 
am  afther  sayin'." 

"  That  don't  help  a  poor  man  to  pay  the  rint,"  persisted  Fin- 
nerty, doggedly. 

"  Luck  '11  look  afther  that,  my  bhoy.  Ain't  it  the  juty  of  the 
Union  to  support  the  mimbers  whin  they  are  shtandin'  up  fer 

a  97 


their   rights  ?     Wut's  a  Union  fer  if  it  ain't  ?     That's  \vut  I'd 
loike  to  know." 

"  If  they'll  only  kape  it  up.  Whin  a  poor  man's  lost  his 
job—" 

"  Dom  you,  Finnerty  !"  cried  Dolan.  "  Yer  haven't  the  cour- 
age av  a  flea.  Them  fellers  '11  have  to  give  in  to  us  evenchooly. 
It's  allus  the  way." 

"  Well,  well !"  murmured  Finnerty,  feebly.  He  knew  that  he 
was  getting  the  worst  of  the  argument,  but  nevertheless  he 
could  not  share  Dolan's  cheerful  confidence  that  the  owners  of 
the  works  would  give  in.  He  mopped  his  face  with  a  red 
handkerchief  much  the  worse  for  wear,  and  looked  vaguely 
down  the  dusty  street.  "  Here  comes  Mr.  Baretta,"  he  said, 
presently. 

"  Dom  him,  too  !"  cried  Dolan,  fiercely.  "  He's  one  of  them 
as  is  agin  us." 

"  Wut  makes  ye  think  that,  Dolan  ?" 

"  If  it's  not  belavin'  me  ye'd  be,  ask  Luck."  Dolan  once 
more  directed  a  volley  at  the  curb,  and  then  nodded  in  a  surly 
fashion  as  Baretta  came  up. 

u  So  the  strike's  on,  is  it  ?"  asked  the  young  man.  "  Good- 
evening,  Mr.  Finnerty." 

"  Yes,  sir,  we  wint  out  yisterday  afthernoon,"  said  Finnerty, 
seeing  that  Dolan  obviously  intended  to  make  no  reply. 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry  for  it,  to  tell  the  truth." 

"  Who  cares  whether  ye're  sorry  or  not  ?"  growled  Dolan, 
without  looking  up. 

"  Not  you,  at  any  rate,"  retorted  Baretta.  "  But  a  good  many 
of  the  strikers  will  have  reason  to  feel  sorry  before  the  thing  is 
over.  And  so  will  their  families." 

"  You  lave  my  family  alone  !     I  can  take  care  of  'em  myself." 

"  Perhaps  you  can,"  observed  Baretta,  with  a  sneer ;  "  but  you 
don't — not  when  you  go  into  a  strike  of  this  sort  at  the  order 
of  a  scoundrel  like  Luck." 

"  You  can  talk  moighty  big — you  can  !" 

"  Well,  I  sha'n't  talk  about  this  strike  now — it's  too  late  for 
that.  It's  none  of  my  affair  anyway."  He  waited  a  moment, 
and,  when  neither  of  the  men  made  any  further  remark,  added, 

98 


"  You  won't  succeed — remember  what  I  say."  Then  he  went 
on  and  entered  Dolan's  door,  stumbling  over  the  children  on  the 
steps. 

Mrs.  Dolan  was  still  sitting  in  the  entry,  and  the  young  man 
stopped  to  speak  to  her.  "  I'm  sorry  about  this  strike,"  he  said. 
But  Mrs.  Dolan  merely  shook  her  head  and  groaned.  There 
was  some  one  sitting  on  the  stairs,  and  as  Baretta  turned  to  go 
up  this  person  silently  rose  to  let  him  pass.  It  was  Maud. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Baretta,  rather  awkwardly,  looking  at  her. 
He  hesitated  a  moment.  "  Won't  you  come  a  little  ways  with 
me  ?"  he  asked  at  last. 

Maud  shook  her  head  in  silence. 

"  Do,"  said  Mrs.  Dolan.  "  It'll  do  ye  good  afther  bein'  hived 
up  here  all  day.  I'd  go  myself  if  I  wa'n't  so  fat." 

There  was  another  pause,  during  which  Baretta  continued  to 
look  at  the  girl  entreatingly.  "  Oh,  well !"  she  cried  at  last, 
petulantly,  "  I  suppose  I  must.  Wait  till  I  get  my  hat." 

"  Let  us  go  towards  Park  Square,"  said  Baretta,  as  they  came 
out  upon  the  pavement.  "  It  isn't  far,  and  we  can  take  a  car 
there  for  Chestnut  Hill." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  want  to  be  seen  with  me."  She 
nodded  as  she  passed  her  father  and  Finnerty,  and  Dolan  called 
out,  "  Moiud  ye  don't  be  gone  long  now."  Then,  as  the  young 
man  made  no  answer,  she  added,  "  However,  there  ain't  much 
chance  of  her  seeing  us,  is  there  ?" 

"  Her !"  repeated  Baretta,  "  who  do  you  mean  by  her  ?" 

"  What's  the  use  of  trying  to  deceive  me,  Frank  ?  Do  you 
suppose  that  I  haven't  got  eyes  ?" 

"  If  it  gives  you  any  satisfaction  to  make  yourself  and  me  un- 
comfortable, I  dare  say  you  have  a  right  to  do  so.  Only  I  don't 
think  it's  fair,  considering  all  I'm  doing  for  your  sake." 

The  girl  stopped  and  faced  him.  "  For  my  sake  !"  she  cried, 
with  a  laugh  in  which  there  was  not  much  merriment. 

"  Do  you  think  I  stay  on  here  for  any  other  reason  ?" 

"Well,  then,"  she  retorted,  with  another  laugh,  "you  can 
go." 

The  ugly  scowl  came  over  Baretta's  face.  "  Oh,  if  you  want 
to  get  rid  of  me — " 

99 


"  We're  going  out  to  Chestnut  Hill,  ain't  we  ?"  interrupted 
Maud,  walking  on. 

"  See  here,  Maud,"  continued  Baretta,  trying  to  speak  more 
pleasantly,  "  it's  foolish  for  us  to  quarrel.  1  don't  know  what 
extraordinary  notion  you've  got  in  your  head.  If  you  mean 
that  any  of  the  people  you  like  to  call  my  swell  friends  will  now 
come  between  us,  that  shows  how  little  you  know  them — or  me. 
I  told  you  once  I  would  stay  in  Arragon  Street  for  your  sake, 
and  I  will  keep  my  word.  Of  course  if  you  no  longer  care  for 
me—" 

"What  do  you  want  to  say  that  for?"  she  burst  out  passion- 
ately. "  Do  you  want  to  lower  my  pride — my  self-respect  ?  To 
be  sure,  I  haven't  got  much.  How  could  I  have  ?  No  girl  who 
thought  anything  of  herself  would  tell  a  man  that  she — how 
much  she  cared  for  him."  She  paused  a  moment,  and  then 
went  on:  "Well,  it's  the  truth  —  I  ain't  ashamed  of  it.  She 
wouldn't  say  that." 

The  sincerity  of  this  declaration — at  once  confused  and  ex- 
plicit— touched  him.  "  Maud,  dear,"  he  said,  very  gently,  "  you 
know  I  love  you.  And  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  as  if  there  was 
any  one  else." 

She  regarded  him  a  moment  through  eyes  that  glistened  with 
unshed  tears.  "  Oh,  but  there  would  be  if  things  were  differ- 
ent," she  said.  "  I'm  only  a  second  best.  Do  you  suppose  I'm 
such  a  fool  as  not  to  know  that  ?" 

Baretta  offered  her  his  arm  and  drew  her  closer  to  him.  They 
had  now  turned  the  corner  from  Madrid  Street  into  Columbus 
Avenue.  "  I  know  what  you  mean,  Maud,  but  you  are  wrong 
there.  It  is  quite  true  that  one  or  two  people  have  been  very 
kind  to  me.  One  of  them  is  a — young  lady,  the  daughter  of 
Mr.  Lawrence  ;  you  have  heard  me  speak  of  him.  And  I — I 
admire  her  very  much ;  you  would,  if  you  knew  her.  But — 
well,  just  you  go  to  her  and  tell  her  I  am  in  love  with  her  and 
see  what  she  would  say.  Why,  if  I  should  hint  at  such  a  thing 
her  father  would  turn  me  out  of  the  house.  You  see,"  he  add- 
ed, bitterly,  "  it's  all  very  well  to  take  up  with  common  folks 
like  us,  but  we  mustn't  make  the  mistake  of  forgetting  our 
station." 

100 


"You  are  not  common,  Frank.  Your  father  was  a  great  man 
in  his  own  country." 

"  Oh,  well !"  cried  Baretta,  irritably,  for  somehow  her  implicit 
belief  in  his  pretensions  annoyed  him  for  the  moment,  although 
not  sufficiently  to  lead  him  to  tell  her  the  truth ;  "  that  doesn't 
make  any  difference  here.  I'm  an  unknown  adventurer — that's 
the  way  they  look  at  me.  They're  only  taking  me  up  to  amuse 
themselves.  Yates  says  so." 

"  But  you  said  they  had  a  great  interest — they  were  going  to 
help  you." 

"  I  say  that  Yates  thinks  that — not  that  I  do.  But  he  has  a 
reason." 

"  What  reason  ?" 

"  How  curious  you  are,  Maud.  He's  jealous  of  me — he  envies 
-  me  my  opportunities.  Yates  is  a  good  enough  sort  of  fellow, 
but  he  don't  amount  to  much,  and  it  annoys  him  to  see  me  get- 
ting on." 

"  Well,  he  must  be  a  mean  thing,  Frank  !" 

"  Oh  no — Yates  isn't  mean.  I  don't  expect  you  can  under- 
stand, exactly." 

"  There's  so  much  I  can't  understand,"  said  Maud,  mourn- 
fully. "But  I'll  tell  you  what  I  wish." 

"  Well  ?"  he  said,  encouragingly,  seeing  that  she  hesitated. 

"  I  wish  that  you  could  get  away  from  all  these  people — like 
— like  us — and  do  something  for  yourself.  You're  too  smart 
for  them.  You  can  find  enough  to  do  without  going  round  with 
men  like  Ditton  and  Luck.  That's  why  I  think  you  ought  to — 
to  give  me  up." 

This  speech  penetrated  even  Baretta's  egotism,  and  touched 
him.  "My  dear  Maud,  I'll  never  give  you  up.  I'll  take  you 
away  with  me." 

"  Oh,  Frank !"  she  whispered,  gratefully.  Perhaps  she  had 
not  been  quite  sincere  in  her  offer  of  renunciation  ;  at  all  events, 
his  refusal  to  accept  it  flooded  her  heart  with  sudden  rapture. 
"Oh,  Frank!"  she  repeated,  "no  one  will  ever  love  you  as  I  do." 

After  that  neither  said  anything  until  they  were  in  the  car 
and  on  their  way  to  Chestnut  Hill.  It  was  worth  while,  Baretta 
thought,  to  have  heard  Maud  say  she  loved  him,  even  although 

101 


there  was  another  whom  he  could  have  loved  more  than  he  did 
her.  But  since  Mildred  had  said  farewell  to  him  so  coldly  he 
had  recognized  fully  the  impossibility  of  his  aspirations  in  that 
direction.  He  had  found  some  consolation  in  projecting  him- 
self in  imagination  into  the  scene  of  his  future  achievements, 
which  were  to  make  him  famous  enough  to  aspire  to  anything. 
These,  however,  were  as  yet  impalpable,  and  meanwhile  he  felt 
the  need  of  feminine  sympathy.  Besides,  he  was  so  far  bound 
to  Maud  that  he  would  not  throw  her  over,  especially  when 
there  was  the  risk  of  getting  no  one  else  if  he  did.  And  he 
really  was  fond  of  her.  Those  occasional  moments  of  estrange- 
ment between  them  on  the  whole  increased  this  fondness.  A 
man  less  impressionable  than  Baretta  would  have  been  moved 
by  Maud's  fervid  devotion. 

"You  ought  to  live  in  a  house  like  that,"  said  Maud,  presently, 
as  the  car  whizzed  along  the  broad  boulevard.  She  pointed  to 
a  pretty  villa,  perched  upon  a  bank  above  the  -road,  and  half- 
hidden  in  clambering  vines. 

"  Oh,  that !  Why,  it's  Allen's  house,"  said  Baretta.  "  I  was 
out  there  not  long  ago.  It's  closed  now.  I  suppqpe  he's  gone 
away  for  the  summer  with  the  rest  of  them." 

"  Who  is  he?"  asked  Maud.  "  I  don't  think  if  I  had  a  house 
like  that  I'd  want  to  go  away." 

"  Didn't  you  see  how  they  were  all  boarded  up  back  on 
Beacon  Street?  Oh  yes,  they  go  away  to  —  to  Beverly,  and 
never  think  once  of  those  that  stay  behind  shut  up  in  stifling 
tenements  on  a  day  like  this  !" 

"  Yes,  it's  hard  that  some  people  should  have  everything," 
said  Maud.  "  But  why  should  they  think  of  the  others  ?" 

"  Oh,  well,  you  wait !  When  we  have  our  rights,  people 
won't  live  in  Arragon  Street  while  places  like  these  are  empty." 

"  But  do  you  think  that  time  will  ever  come,  Frank  ?  Be- 
cause I  don't." 

"  It's  what  I'm  working  for — it's  what  I'd  give  my  life  for  !" 
said  Baretta. 

"  Don't !"  said  Maud.  A  man  on  the  seat  in  front  had 
turned  around,  and  she  fancied  that  he  had  heard.  "  I  want 
you  to  keep  your  life — for  me,"  she  murmured,  nestling  a  little 

102 


closer  to  him.  In  Arragon  Street  they  took  manifestations  of 
affection  in  public  as  a  matter  of  course.  Maud,  to  be  sure, 
had  never  been  a 'girl  to  allow  indiscriminate  familiarity.  But 
Baretta  stood  in  a  different  relation  to  her  than  the  rest.  She 
withdrew  herself  again,  however,  when  she  saw  that  he  made  no 
response,  and  that  sudden  chill  of  conviction  that  he  did  not 
really  love  her  once  more  took  possession  of  her  heart. 

"  Do  you  see  the  man  on  the  second  seat  in  front  ?"  asked 
Baretta,  heeding  neither  movement.  "  That  is  Mr.  Allen  him- 
self. I  wonder  we  didn't  see  him  get  in." 

"  Oh,  well !"  said  Maud,  with  an  air  of  pique,  "  if  you  are 
more  interested  in  him  than  in  me,  why  didn't  you  go  and  talk 
to  him !" 

"Don't  be  foolish!"  said  the  young  man,  impatiently.  At 
this  moment  Mr.  Allen  turned  partly  in  his  seat  and  caught 
sight  of  him. 

"  Ah,  I  want  to  talk  with  you,"  he  said,  as  he  swung  himself 
into  the  seat  directly  in  front.  Then  he  looked  at  Maud  and 
lifted  his  hat.  "  I  beg  your  pardon — I  thought  you  were  alone." 

"This  is  Miss  Dolan,"  said  Baretta,  looking  confused,  and 
mumbling  the  name  in  the  hope  that  Mr.  Allen  would  not  get  a 
very  accurate  idea  of  it.  To  be  found  with  Miss  Dolan  was  too 
hopelessly  plebeian.  Maud  looked  very  pretty — she  had  on  a 
simple  white  dress  that  she  had  washed  and  ironed  herself  only 
the  day  before,  and  a  knot  of  dark-red  ribbon  at  the  throat  and 
a  band  of  the  same  about  her  waist.  But  any  one  could  see  that 
she  was  not  a  lady ;  this  conviction  made  her  companion  feel 
quite  miserable. 

Maud  blushed  slightly  under  Mr.  Allen's  scrutiny  and  ex- 
tended her  hand.  Baretta  thought  he  detected  an  amused 
smile  on  Mr.  Allen's  face  as  he  took  it  a  moment,  bowed,  and 
then  said,  "  I  am  very  pleased  to  meet  you,  Miss — er — " 

"  Dolan,"  said  Maud,  with  unmistakable  clearness. 

"  Ah,  Dolan.  I  am  a  dreadfully  bad  hand  at  catching  names, 
don't  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Allen,  pleasantly,  while  Baretta 
scowled  and  ground  his  teeth  in  helpless  rage.  "  What  a 
frightfully  hot  day  it  has  been !  I've  had  the  house  closed 
tight,  but  somehow  the  heat  got  in." 

103 


"  We  saw  your  house  as  we  came  by,"  said  Maud,  smiling, 
"  and  Frank — Mr.  Bare.tta — said  you  must  be  gone  away  for  the 
summer." 

Baretta  scowled  again,  more  fiercely  than  before.  But  nei- 
ther of  them  saw  him.  He  was  humiliated  by  that  unconscious 
confession  of  familiarity  on  Maud's  part  in  using  his  first  name, 
and  he  was  also  annoyed  to  think — why,  he  could  not  exactly 
tell — that  she  should  let  Mr.  Allen  know  they  had  been  talking 
about  him. 

"  Oh  no — I  don't  sail  until  Saturday." 

"  You  are  going  on  a  boat  ?"  asked  Maud,  who  seemed  to 
have  no  feeling  of  shyness  at  all  in  the  presence  of  this  young 
man,  who  had  such  an  agreeable  voice  and  who  addressed  her 
with  so  much  courteous  deference. 

"  To  the  other  side,  you  know,"  he  said,  smiling  again.  "  I 
go  every  summer.  I  was  sorry  not  to  sail  last  month,"  he 
added,  turning  to  catch  Baretta's  eye.  "  Mrs.  Chilton  went 
then,  and  I  am  very  fond  of  Mrs.  Chilton." 

Maud  thought  that  this  was  a  queer  way  of  speaking  of  a 
married  lady  ;  but  she  concluded  that  it  must  be  one  of  those 
customs  of  society  of  which  she  knew  nothing.  "  I  guess  I've 
heard  of  Mrs.  Chilton,"  she  said. 

"  Ah,  yes  !  She  has  a  great  admiration  for  our  friend.  She 
expects  him  to  do  wonderful  things  with  his  lectures." 

"  He's  awful  smart !"  assented  Maud,  with  a  laugh  which  be- 
trayed an  immense  satisfaction  in  that  fact. 

"  That's  a  compliment  worth  having.  I  sha'n't  agree  with 
you,  though,  because  Baretta's  vain  enough  already." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  say  such  things."  Baretta  spoke 
calmly  enough,  although  in  truth  he  was  anything  but  calm. 

"  Which  of  us  is  that  meant  for  ?"  asked  Mr.  Allen.  Then, 
with  ready  tact,  he  changed  his  tone.  He  felt  that  they  might 
be  getting  upon  dangerous  ground.  "  Well,  Mr.  Baretta,  I  hope 
you'll  get  on  with  those  lectures;  I  shall  be  quite  anxious  to 
hear  them.  By-the-way,  have  you  begun  your  work  for  the 
Mail  yet?  It  was  that  which  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you 
about." 

"  I  sent  Mr.  Binney  the  first  article  yesterday." 

104 


"  Well,  you  must  make  him  let  you  sign  it ;  I  should  make  a 
point  of  that." 

"  So  Mr.  Yates  said.     Do  you  know  him — Philip  Yates  ?" 

"  Not  very  well.  He's  a  good  sort  of  fellow,  though.  By- 
the-way,  he  was  once  engaged  to  your  friend  Miss  Lawrence. 
I  dare  say  you  knew  that." 

Baretta's  heart  throbbed  with  sudden  emotion  when  Mr. 
Allen  said  this ;  but  although  this  emotion  was  in  some  measure 
reflected  in  the  dull  red  flush  that  overspread  his  face,  he  af- 
fected an  air  of  calmness.  "  To  Yates?  I — oh  yes,  I  may  have 
heard  something  of  the  sort  and  forgotten  it." 

Maud,  watching  him,  was  not  deceived  by  his  tone.  Oh,  it 
was  only  too  true,  she  told  herself,  that  he  was  in  love  with  this 
young  lady,  who  would  look  down  upon  him — who  would  not 
admire  him  as  she  did.  She  felt  angry  with  this  unknown  Miss 
Lawrence,  forgetting  that  she  wanted  Baretta  for  herself,  and 
had  every  reason  to  be  grateful  to  one  who  did  not  want  him. 

"  Miss  Lawrence  doesn't  like  me,"  Mr.  Allen  Avent  on ;  "I  re- 
member telling  you  that  at  Mrs.  Chilton's.  But  I  am  magnani- 
mous enough  to  admire  her  very  greatly.  Are  you  going  as 
far  as  the  Reservoir  ?  It's  a  pleasant  night  for  a  ride.  One  can 
keep  cool  in  an  open  car  if  anywhere.  I  get  off  at  the  next 
street.  Good-evening — good-evening,  Miss  Dolan."  He  lifted 
his  hat  to  Maud  and  nodded  cheerfully  to  Baretta  as  the  car 
slackened  speed,  and  then  swung  himself  from  the  high  step. 

"Is  he  a  great  friend  of  yours?"  asked  Maud,  looking  after 
him  as  the  car  rolled  on. 

"  No,"  answered  Baretta,  curtly. 

"  He  was  very  nice,  anyway.  I  don't  think  you  acted  very 
polite  to  him." 

"  As  you  and  he  did  all  the  talking,  I  don't  see  how  I  could  be." 

"  Why,  Frank,  you  ain't  mad  with  me  because  I  spoke  to  him  ?" 

"  No,  no ;  of  course  not."  Baretta  could  not  explain  to 
Maud  why  he  had  been  annoyed  by  the  meeting,  and  he  was 
anxious  not  to  hurt  her  feelings  by  letting  her  see  that  he  was 
annoyed  at  all.  Having  put  Mildred  Lawrence  out  of  his  mind 
altogether,  as  he  thought,  he  was  determined  to  make  the  best 
of  his  relations  with  this  other  girl — one,  he  thought  bitterly,  of 

105 


his  own  station  in  life.  But  still  the  wound  was  there,  and  it 
gave  him  moments  of  wellnigh  unendurable  pain.  Ho  was 
thinking  now  of  what  Mr.  Allen  had  told  him.  So  he  had 
found  out  why  Yates  and  Miss  Lawrence  were  strangers  !  They 
had  been  lovers,  and  something  had  happened  to  part  them.  He 
made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  find  out  what  it  had  been.  He 
did  not  dislike  Yates  ;  as  Mr.  Allen  had  said,  he  was  a  very 
good  sort  of  fellow.  But  he  was  conscious  of  a  curious  feel- 
ing of  exultation  in  the  knowledge  that  he  and  Miss  Lawrence 
had  quarrelled,  as  well  as  of  a  wild  hope  that  it  would  somehow 
be  an  advantage  to  himself.  This  was  inconsistent  in  him  after 
he  had  determined  to  marry  Maud,  but  the  operation  of  the 
human  mind  in  such  cases  often  is  inconsistent. 

"  Miss  Lawrence  must  be  very  pretty — you  all  seem  to  be 
gone  on  her." 

Maud's  remark  awoke  him  from  his  reflections.  It  also  irri- 
tated him. 

"  Oh,  don't  let  us  be  everlastingly  talking  about  her,"  he  said. 
"  She's  nothing  to  you — or  to  me." 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  !     You  said  she  was  kind  to  you." 

"  See  here,  Maud !  I  won't  let  any  of  them  patronize  me. 
The  time  has  gone  by  for  that.  I've  got  a  start  and  I'm  able  to 
make  my  own  way.  And  Yates,  confound  him !  and  all  the 
rest  of  them,  needn't  put  on  any  more  airs  !" 

The  car  had  stopped  at  the  entrance  to  the  Reservoir.  "  It 
won't  go  back  for  ten  minutes,"  said  Baretta,  as  he  helped  the 
girl  alight.  "  Come,  let  us  walk  for  a  little." 

"  Oh,  Frank !"  cried  Maud  to  him  piteously,  as  they  went 
along  the  white  road  under  the  trees,  where  already  the  summer 
evening,  fresh  and  sweet  out  here  far  from  the  hot  pavements, 
was  turning  to  dusk,  "  is  it  really  me  you  care  for  ?" 

She  put  out  her  hand,  and  he  took  it  in  his.  "Really,"  he 
said ;  and  perhaps  for  the  moment  he  believed  it.  At  all  events, 
he  drew  her  farther  into  the  shadow,  and  bent  down  and  kissed 
her.  As  their  lips  met  she  gave  a  passionate  shudder,  and 
threw  her  arms  about  his  neck.  "  It  would  kill  me  to  lose  you 
now !"  she  said.  And  when  he  looked  in  her  eyes  again  he 
saw  that  they  were  full  of  tears. 

106 


CHAPTER  XI 
PLAYING  WITH  FIRE 

MAUD  was  very  quiet  all  the  way  home.  Perhaps  she  re- 
gretted that  impulsive  confession.  She  was  very  much  in  love 
with  Baretta  and  very  proud  of  him ;  but  she  could  not  help 
feeling  that  the  heroines  of  whom  she  liked  to  read  would  not 
have  done  anything  so  undignified.  To  be  sure,  they  were 
ladies  of  rank,  who  inspired  undying  devotion  in  handsome  cap- 
tains or  wealthy  earls,  and  it  was  comparatively  easy  for  them 
to  accept  homage  passively.  The  audacious  ones,  those  who 
sprang  at  men  and  kissed  them,  always  came  to  some  bad  end. 
Usually  it  was  death  by  drowning,  or  something  of  that  sort, 
and  then  those  who  had  despised  them,  or  who  had  believed 
evil  of  them,  went  away  and  never  smiled  again.  Maud  did  not 
think  that  anything  which  could  happen  to  her  would  afflict 
Baretta  so  deeply  as  that.  She  knew,  as  she  said,  that  she  was 
only  second  best.  But  she  worshipped  him  so  that  even  with 
this  much  she  was  content.  By-and-by  he  might  see  that  she 
deserved  the  first  place.  It  was  the  truth,  she  felt  sure,  that  no 
one  would  ever^love  him  as  much  as  she  did. 

A  man  who  could  inspire  an  affection  like  this,  even  in  a 
poor  and  half-educated  girl  like  Maud  Dolan,  might  well  have 
regarded  the  trust  imposed  upon  him  as  something  sacred.  It 
is  doubtful,  however,  if  Baretta  had  any  such  feeling.  He  was 
touched  by  the  evidence  of  her  passionate  love,  of  course,  and 
perhaps  for  the  moment  it  kindled  in  him  an  answering  flame. 
But  he  had  bound  himself  to  her  with  misgivings,  and  these 
were  more  potent  than  any  charm  which  her  fresh  young  beauty 
might  exercise  over  him.  He  had  not  meant  to  bind  himself  at 

107 


all.  But  when  he  had  promised  not  to  go  away  from  Arragon 
Street  he  had  taken  a  step  from  the  consequences  of  which  he 
could  not  escape.  After  that  it  was  so  easy  to  fall  into  the 
position  of  a  lover,  especially  when  there  was  a  man  like  Dolan 
to  reckon  with.  His  daily  association  with  her  of  itself  meant 
that  there  must  be  something  definite  between  them.  There 
had  been  times,  indeed,  when  it  seemed  as  if  Maud  herself  were 
determined  to  break  off  their  relations  altogether.  He  remem- 
bered how,  for  several  days  after  his  promise  to  her  to  stay,  she 
had  ^resolutely  avoided  him,  and  had  almost  refused  to  speak  to 
him.  And  there  had  been  occasions  since  when  he  had  felt 
that  she  would  not  care  whether  he  stayed  or  went.  Now,  how- 
ever, the  bond  was  inevitable.  Well,  what  better  could  he  ask, 
knowing  as  he  did  the  utter  hopelessness  of  that  wild  dream  of 
his  ?  Maud  might  be  queer,  and  she  certainly  was  not  a  lady ; 
but  she  was  a  good  girl  and  fond  of  him.  Why  should  a  man 
ask  more  ?  He  looked  at  her  as  she  sat  beside  him,  and  thought 
with  satisfaction  how  pretty  she  was.  Of  course  she  could 
never  appeal  to  the  intellectual  part  of  his  nature.  But  the 
warm,  rich  colouring  of  her  cheek,  her  glistening  dark  eyes,  the 
gracious  fulness  of  her  figure,  the  strong  feminine  magnetism 
of  her  presence,  filled  him  with  a  certain  sensuous  delight 
which  it  was  worth  while  to  experience. 

"  Maud,"  he  said,  after  a  time,  "  I  am  worried  about  that 
strike." 

The  girl  had  been  dreaming  of  vague  impossibilities  in  which 
he  was  always  the  central  object,  and  she  gave  a  little  shiver  of 
impatience  at  being  thus  suddenly  recalled  to  the  solid  ground 
of  fact.  "  Oh,  bother  the  strike  !"  she  said.  ",What  harm  can 
it  do  us  ?" 

"  A  good  deal,  I  should  say,  if  your  father  is  out  of  work  for 
weeks  and  weeks,  and  spends  his  time  in  the  saloons." 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  remind  me  of  the  disagreeable  things  ?" 
she  asked,  petulantly.  "  All  the  happiness  I  have  is  in  thinking 
that  you  are  going  to  take  me  away  from  them." 

"  That  is  all  very  fine,"  said  Baretta,  irritably, "  but  I  can't 
take  you  away  to-morrow,  and  meanwhile — " 

"  Oh,  don't  let  us  think  of  meanwhiles !  Let  us  have  to-night 

108 


all  to  ourselves.  I  want  you  to  just  feel  that  you  are  mine, 
and  that  no  one  can  come  between  us,  and  that  all  the  past  is  a 
horrid  nightmare." 

To  this  Baretta  made  no  reply.  It  struck  him  that  she  was 
very  selfish,  and  he  wondered  once  more  if  marrying  her  would 
drag  him  down  to  her  level,  and  thwart  all  his  great  plans  for 
humanity.  Why  had  Mildred  Lawrence  said  good-bye  to  him  so 
coldly  ?  It  was  that  which  had  led  him  to  renounce  all  his  hopes, 
and  to  try  to  satisfy  himself  with  Maud.  He  felt  as  if  he  had 
suffered  a  humiliating  defeat  at  the  hands  of  fate.  And  when 
they  were  in  Arragon  Street  once  more,  back  in  the  heat  and 
the  foul  odours,  it  seemed  as  if  soul  as  well  as  body  were 
stifling  in  a  miasmatic  atmosphere.  He  stopped  at  the  door — 
the  children  had  gone  to  bed  and  the  step  was  deserted — and 
'  looked  vaguely  down  the  narrow  thoroughfare  with  an  unutter- 
able longing  for  some  way  of  escape. 

"  Ain't  you  coming  in,  Frank  ?"  asked  Maud.  "  Oh,  well, 
don't  think  I  care  whether  you  do  or  not,"  she  added,  as  he 
hesitated. 

"  I  thought  it  might  be  cooler  here,"  he  said,  controlling  his 
inclination  to  speak  sharply.  "  Of  course  I'm  coming  in." 
In  the  darkness  of  the  entry  he  put  his  arm  about  her  waist 
and  drew  her  closer  to  him. 

"  Don't !"  she  cried,  trying  to  repulse  him. 

"  But  Maud,  dear  !"    He  lifted  her  face  with  gentle  force  to  his. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  love  me,  Frank  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Sure  !"  He  kissed  her  again  and  again,  trying  to  convince 
himself,  perhaps,  as  well  as  her  of  his  sincerity.  "  Don't  go  up- 
stairs yet,  Maud.  Sit  here  a  while  with  me." 

She  could  not  resist  this  entreaty:  whatever  her  doubts  might 
be  she  loved  him  too  entirely  to  deny  him  anything.  And 
.when,  sitting  by  his  side  on  the  stairs,  her  head  sank  upon  his 
shoulder  and  he  bent  over  and  kissed  her  again,  she  was  con- 
scious of  a  delicious  feeling  of  peace  and  security.  Nothing 
could  distress  her  more,  now  that  he  was  wholly  hers.  But  she 
would  make  him  go  away  from  Arragon  Street  as  soon  as  they 
were  married.  She  wanted  to  have  that  dark  chapter  in  her 
life  closed  at  once  and  forever. 

109 


The  problem  of  existence  for  Baretta,  however,  could  not  be 
settled  so  easily  as  that.  lie  recurred  to  the  subject  of  the 
strike  when  he  saw  her  the  next  morning,  and  said  that  he  was 
going  to  see  if  the  dispute  between  masters  and  men  could  not 
be  settled.  He  would  talk  to  them  at  the  club  that  night  about 
it.  A  fellow  like  Luck  had  no  right  to  throw  a  lot  of  working- 
men  out  of  employment  to  gratify  his  own  spite. 

"  I  wish,  Frank,  you'd  let  them  all  alone,"  interrupted  Maud 
at  this  point.  "  They  ain't  none  of  them  good  enough  for  you." 

"  Abandon  my  work  !     What  then  would  I  do  ?" 

"  Something  that  would  bring  you  in  more  money.  I'm  sure 
your  newspaper  editor  you  told  me  about  would  give  you  some- 
thing to  do." 

"  I  think  I  am  the  best  judge  of  my  own  affairs,"  retorted 
Baretta.  Then,  as  he  was  going  out,  he  came  back  to  kiss  her 
good-bye.  "  Don't  think  I'm  cross,"  he  added.  "  But  you  must 
try  to  sympathize  with  me  in  this  great  scheme  of  mine.  It 
means  something  more  than  mere  bread  and  butter." 

He  went  to  see  Ditton  that  afternoon,  and  tried  to  argue  him 
into  his  way  of  thinking.  "  We  want  to  get  rid  of  that  man 
Luck,  Mr.  Ditton,"  he  said.  "  I  feel  positive  about  that." 

"  Well,  Baretta,"  said  Ditton,  "  I  can't  help  thinking  that  you 
feel  positive  about  a  good  many  things." 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  that  for  a  gibe  at  me,"  cried  the  young 
man. 

"  I  mean  it  for  a  friendly  hint,  and  I  hope  you  won't  take  it 
amiss.  After  all,  Baretta,  I  have  lived  longer  in  the  world  than 
you  have,  and  perhaps  I  have  some  right  to  advise  you,  aside 
from  any  question  of  personal  interest." 

"  Do  you  consider  me  ungrateful  to  you  for  all  your  kindness? 
Is  that  what  you  would  say  ?" 

Ditton  took  a  few  turns  up  and  down  the  stuffy  little  room 
before  he  replied.  The  Socialist  preacher  had  no  fixed  habita- 
tion. When  he  had  money  enough  he  would  hire  a  lodging  at 
some  fourth-rate  hotel  like  this — a  not  over-tidy  house  in  Beach 
Street,  of  which  the  chief  business  was  liquor  selling.  The 
lodgers  were  seldom  reputable,  and  almost  never  clean.  But 
Ditton  often  found  himself  without  a  penny  in  his  pockets,  and 

110 


on  such  occasions,  unless  lie  happened  to  think  of  some  friend 
near  by,  he  would  pass  the  day  on  a  bench  on  the  Common  and 
the  night  in  the  streets.  Most  of  the  policemen  knew  him,  and 
helped  him  out  by  allowing  him  to  slumber  undisturbed  beneath 
some  convenient  shelter.  Several  times  Baretta  had  come  across 
him  in  this  homeless  state  and  had  taken  him  along  to  Arragon 
Street. 

"You  are  trying  to  be  unreasonable,"  said  Ditton  at  last. 
"No — hold  on  a  minute;  let  me  have  my  say  out  and  then  I  will 
listen  to  you.  You  will  make  a  great  mistake  if  you  get  into  a 
quarrel  with  Luck.  It  will  be  a  bad  thing  for  you  personally, 
and  it  will  be  a  bad  thing  for  us.  Mind  you,  I  share  something 
of  your  prejudice  against  the  man.  I  think  he  is  for  Luck  first 
and  the  working-man  second.  But  then  you  have  got  to  take 
men  as  you  find  them.  Unselfishness  is  a  fine  quality,  but  it's 
one  in  which  most  of  us  are  deficient.  As  for  this  strike,  I 
don't  care  whether  it's  for  Luck's  own  advantage  or  not.  The 
point  is  whether  it's  for  our  advantage  — for  the  benefit  of  the 
struggling  masses  whose  battle  we've  undertaken  to  fight.  You 
and  I  certainly  don't  care  a  rap  for  the  bloody  capitalists  who 
own  the  works.  They  have  got  rich  out  of  the  sweat  of  other 
men's  brows,  and  for  them  to  cut  down  wages  is  infamous — 
simply  infamous.  Luck  is  helping  the  men  to  make  a  stand  for 
their  rights,  and  why  should  we — why  should  you — turn  against 
him?" 

"  Because,  as  I  told  you  the  other  day,  I  don't  think  the  men 
will  get  their  rights  in  the  end,  and  because  every  useless  dem- 
onstration weakens  instead  of  strengthens  the  cause." 

"  You  can't  weaken  the  cause  by  showing  these  legalized  rob- 
bers that  you  have  a  little  courage,"  cried  Ditton. 

"  Ah,  if  you  call  it  courage  !"  said  Baretta.  "  For  my  part,  I 
can't  see  that  doubling  up  your  fists  does  any  good  unless  you 
are  going  to  knock  the  man  down." 

"  I  see  very  well,  Baretta,  that  you  want  to  draw  out — that 
you  are  getting  tired  of  the  work." 

"  Look  here,  Mr.  Ditton !"  cried  the  young  man,  hotly.  "  You've 
told  me  that  before,  and  I  don't  intend  to  stand  it — not  from 
you  nor  from  anybody.  I'm  willing  to  give  my  life  for  the 

111 


cause — if  only  I  can  feel  that  it's  not  thrown  away.     All  I  say 
is,  don't  strike  the  blow  until  you  can  make  it  a  heavy  one." 

"And  meanwhile,  I  suppose,  you  will  try  to  convert  your 
swells." 

"  Well,  is  there  any  harm  in  getting  all  the  help  you  can  ?  If 
I  can  find  people  to  listen  to  me  I'm  ready  to  talk  to  them, 
whether  they  live  in  Beacon  Street  or  at  the  North  End." 

"Help  from  some  quarters  is  a  hinderance,  Baretta.  But  I  see 
that  you're  bound  to  have  your  own  way.  Don't  hurry,"  he 
added,  as  Baretta  took  up  his  hat.  "  Are  you  coming  to  the 
meeting  to-night  ?" 

"  Yes— I  shall  be  there." 

"  Well,  for  Heaven's  sake  keep  your  mouth  shut  and  don't 
raise  a  row." 

"  Oh  yes  !"  cried  Baretta,  turning  in  the  doorway.  "  You're 
bound  to  down  me,  too  ;  I  might  have  expected  it !  But  you 
can't  do  it !"  he  continued,  with  angry  vehemence.  "  No  one 
can  do  it!  I  shall  be  there,  and  I  shall  have  my  say  !"  Then  he 
went,  banging  the  door  behind  him. 

The  room  was  crowded  when  Baretta  entered  it  that  evening, 
and  the  conversation  at  the  small  tables  had  already  become 
very  noisy.  Most  of  the  men,  being  now  out  of  work,  were 
spending  more  than  the  usual  amount  of  money  for  drink.  Dit- 
ton  was  speaking,  his  strident  voice  rising  high  above  the  rest, 
and  compelling  now  and  then  a  lull  in  the  individual  discussions 
going  on  around  him. 

"  I  want  you  to  listen  to  this,"  he  shouted,  waving  a  news- 
paper. "  It's  an  item  of  a  few  lines  in  this  evening's  Trumpet.'1'1 

"Damn  the  Trumpet!"  came  from  the  murky  atmosphere. 

"  I  accept  the  amendment.  It's  bought  and  paid  for  by  the 
bloody  thieves  who  have  bound  you  all  hand  and  foot.  But  I 
want  to  read  you  a  few  lines  from  it  just  the  same."  He 
pounded  the  table  vigorously.  "  I  wish  you'd  all  listen  to  this," 
he  said. 

The  room  was  intensely  close — it  was  so  crowded,  and  the 
atmosphere  was  vitiated  by  the  smoke  of  bad  tobacco,  the  fumes 
of  whiskey,  and  the  foul  breath  from  a  hundred  throats — and 
Ditton  mopped  his  face  with  his  handkerchief  as  he  stood  there 

112 


waiting  for  them  to  be  silent.  "  I'm  not  going  to  talk  to  you 
long,"  he  said,  at  last.  "  The  time  for  talking  has  gone  by  ;  it's 
time  to  act.  This  is  what  I  want  to  read  you  from  the  Trumpet" 
he  cried,  waving  the  paper.  "  It's  the  story  of  a  suicide — of  a 
man  who  jumped  off  a  Sound  steamer  the  other  night.  'Oh, 
that's  a  common  thing,'  I  hear  you  saying ;  '  why  does  he  want 
us  to  hear  about  that  ?'  Yes,  curse  'em,  it's  a  common  thing ! 
Perhaps  it's  what  some  of  us  may  do  if  we  can't  get  justice 
from  the  blood-hounds  who  are  tracking  us  down." 

Here  shouts  and  oaths  interrupted  the  speaker,  and  he  was 
forced  to  pound  upon  the  table  again  before  he  could  go  on. 

"  This  man,  my  friends,  left  a  letter  behind  him.  It  was  ad- 
dressed to  his  sister — the  only  near. relative  he  had  in  the  world. 
Now  just  keep  quiet  a  minute  and  I'll  read  you  the  letter.  The 
Trumpet  has  printed  it — the  editor  didn't  see  it  in  time  to  cut  it 
out.  Hear  what  poor  Thomas  Morgan  wrote  to  his  sister. 
'  When  this  reaches  you ' — I'm  reading  exactly  what's  printed  in 
the  Trumpet — '  I  shall  have  done  with  life.  Extreme  poverty 
has  driven  me  to  this  desperate  step.  I  could  not  earn  anything, 
and  I  did  not  wish  the  labouring  man  to  pay  taxes  to  support 
me.' " 

"  That's  where  he  was  right !"  cried  some  one  in  the  crowd. 

"  Hold  on,  my  friends  !"  continued  Ditton.  "  Here's  a  few  lines 
marked  '  Later.'  No  doubt  they  were  written  just  before  the  ag- 
onized and  desperate  man  threw  himself  overboard.  '  I  am  now 
hungry,'  Morgan  wrote,  '  but  I  shall  get  over  that  before  mid- 
night. When  I  throw  myself  off  the  boat  that  will  finish  the 
job.'  Yes,"  said  Ditton,  "  that  finished  the  job.  So  Thomas 
Morgan  settled  the  problem.  So  he  died,  while  thousands  around 
him  were  revelling  in  luxury." 

"  Damn  'em !"  came  from  the  murky  depths  of  the  room. 

"  Yes,  damn  'em !  damn  'em  !"  repeated  Ditton,  with  sudden 
fury.  He  threw  the  paper  aside  with  an  angry  gesture  and 
leaped  upon  the  table,  gesticulating  wildly.  "  There  are  thou- 
sands of  men  in  this  country  who  kill  themselves  every  year 
because  they  are  poor.  Right  at  the  doors  of  the  fine  houses 
on  Beacon  Street  —  where  men  sit  drinking  their  wine  and 
women  blaze  in  diamonds  —  they  kill  themselves,  and  still  the 

H  113 


laughter  goes  on.  Water,  rope,  or  bullets  do  it,  and  they  make 
their  appeal  from  a  pitiless  world  to  God.  God  ? — is  there  a  God, 
I  wonder,  to  permit  such  things?  I  used  to  believe  in  Him  once, 
but  I  didn't  know  then  one-half  the  sorrow  and  sin  and  shame 
there  is  in  the  world.  Curse  the  rich  men  who  make  such  things 
possible !  Curse  the  system  that  is  crushing  us  all  down  to  a 
hopeless  bitter  life  that  is  worse  than  death  !  Curse — " 

Here  Ditton's  voice  was  overwhelmed  in  the  torrent  of  inar- 
ticulate execrations  which  rose  from  the  crowd.  Some  of  the 
men  had  perhaps  taken  too  much  whiskey  to  know  exactly  what 
they  were  saying;  but  it  was  obvious  that  some  one  was  to  blame 
for  their  poverty,  and  for  the  fact  that  most  of  them  were  now 
out  of  work. 

Baretta  looked  on  at  all  this  with  something  like  a  pitying 
smile.  Yes,  it  was  all  true,  what  Ditton  had  said.  In  a  regen- 
erated society  no  man  would  be  richer  than  another,  and  the  in- 
dustrial conditions  which  economists  defended  with  .their  feeble 
prate  about  supply  and  demand  would  no  longer  exist.  But 
somehow  or  other  he  was  no  longer  in  sympathy  with  these  wild 
denunciations ;  he  was  not  in  the  cursing  mood.  And  this  was 
not,  he  told  himself,  because  he  was  growing  lukewarm  towards 
the  cause,  as  Ditto"n  had  hinted ;  there  was  no  one  there  who 
could  be  willing  to  make  greater  sacrifices  than  he.  Nevertheless 
he  saw  the  supreme  folly  of  simply  crying  out  "  Curse  them  !" 
That  could  not  advance  the  cause  a  bit.  Curses  were  not  tangi- 
ble things.  Ditton  was  a  good  deal  of  a  fool,  after  all.  He 
ought  to  know  that  this  strike  would  be  futile.  With  a  fellow 
like  Luck  concerned  in  it,  what  could  you  expect?  He  now 
caught  a  glimpse  of  Luck,  standing  near  Ditton  and  listening 
with  a  certain  look  of  triumph  on  his  red,  brutal  face  to  these 
whirling  words.  And  presently  he  saw  Ditton  step  down  and 
Luck  take  his  place.  At  this  a  sort  of  blind  rage  came  over  him. 
Why  should  that  fellow  have  everything  his  own  way  ?  He 
pressed  forward  through  the  crowd  until  he  stood  close  by  tha 
table.  Then  he  raised  his  voice  high  above  the  din  and  shouted, 
"  Don't  listen  to  that  man  until  you  have  heard  me  !" 

1H 


CHAPTER  XII 
AN    EXPLOSION 

THIS  sudden  appeal  was  followed  almost  instantly  by  a  dead 
silence.  Men  in  the  act  of  drinking  set  their  glasses  down  un- 
tasted,  and  others  removed  their  pipes  from  their  mouths  in 
their  eagerness  to  discover  what  was  up.  All  had  that  instinct- 
ive consciousness  of  what  they  called  a  "  row,"  which  led  them 
to  yield  everything  for  the  moment  to  curiosity.  And  perhaps 
something  in  Baretta's  appearance  a  little  awed  as  well  as  star- 
tled them.  He  had  sprung  into  a  chair,  and  although  Luck  still 
stood  upon  the  table,  he  seemed  somehow  to  tower  above  him. 
His  face  was  white  with  passion,  and  his  black  eyes  blazed  with 
excitement ;  nor  had  that  habitual  scowl  ever  been  more  intense, 
more  livid.  He  raised  his  fist  and  shook  it  at  Luck.  "  You 
haven't  any  right  to  speak  to  decent  men,  you  scoundrel  !"  he 
cried. 

"  Scoundrel !"  sputtered  Luck,  his  face  redder  than  ever, 
cowering  a  little,  as  if  he  had  received  a  blow. 

But  Baretta's  words  had  broken  the  spell  of  silence,  and  now 
voices  were  heard  in  all  directions,  many  of  them  in  angry  pro- 
test. "  Give  every  man  a  chance,"  was  the  burden  of  several. 
"  No,  no — we  won't  have  no  fighting  here  !"  "  Sit  down,  Ba- 
retta  !"  "  Sit  down,  ye  young  fool !"  These  were  the  cries  that 
came  from  the  crowd. 

"  I  want  you  to  listen  to  me — just  give  me  a  chance  to  prove 
my  words  !"  cried  Baretta. 

Here  Ditton  interfered.  "  Luck  has  the  floor,"  he  said. 
Then,  turning  to  Baretta,  "  When  he's  done,  you  can  talk  all 
you  want  to,"  he  added,  roughly. 

115 


The  listeners  stamped  and  shouted  approval,  and  some  of 
them  were  so  delighted  that  they  had  their  glasses  filled  once 
more.  They  didn't  mind  a  row  as  a  rule,  even  if  it  were  a  rather 
violent  one.  But  just  now  they  were  inclined  to  object,  because 
they  suspected  that  the  end  of  it  would  be  their  ejection  from 
the  place  ;  and  they  were  immensely  comfortable  over  their 
pipes  and  beer,  and  listening  to  the  story  of  their  thraldom. 

As  it  turned  out,  however,  Luck  had  very  little  to  say  that 
was  to  the  point.  Perhaps  Baretta's  onslaught  had  discon- 
certed him.  Baretta  was  now  sullenly  standing  a  little  back 
from  the  table,  leaning  against  the  wall  with  folded  arms.  His 
face  was  still  distorted  by  the  workings  of  passion,  and  he  shot 
glances  of  angry  disdain  both  at  Luck  and  at  Ditton  from  under 
his  heavy  eyebrows.  He  was  already  beginning  to  regret  that 
sudden  outburst.  It  was  all  true  ;  Luck  was  a  scoundrel — that 
he  knew  very  well.  But  proof  is  often  difficult  where  accusation 
is  easy.  He  felt  that  it  was  at  once  too  soon  and  too  late  to 
argue  that  the  strike  was  a  piece  of  folly.  They  might  believe 
him  after  they  had  been  out  of  work  for  several  weeks,  or  they 
might  have  done  so  before  their  decision  had  been  taken.  Now 
things  must  run  their  course,  and  he  had  only  thrown  himself 
into  the  breach  to  be  battered  down  by  the  force  of  circum- 
stances. He  could  denounce  Luck,  of  course  ;  indeed,  that  was 
what  he  must  do.  He  could  tell  this  excited  half -drunken 
crowd  that  the  man  was  simply  playing  upon  their  necessities 
for  his  own  advantage — that  it  was  because  they  paid  their  as- 
sessments into  the  Union  that  he  and  his  kind  were  able  to  find 
the  occupation  of  stirring  up  trouble  between  employers  and 
employed  sufficiently  remunerative.  But  this,  after  all,  was  a 
reflection  upon  themselves  as  well  as  upon  Luck.  The  working- 
man  is  seldom  logical,  but  he  might  be  trusted  to  make  such  an 
obvious  deduction.  Oh  no  ;  he  would  get  no  thanks  for  trying 
to  enlighten  them  ;  he  would  not  even  have  the  satisfaction  of 
triumphing  over  a  man  whom  he  hated.  He  was  very  sure  of 
this  as  he  stood  there  glowering  upon  them  all.  Nevertheless, 
he  would  go  through  with  it ;  he  would  say  his  say  when  the 
opportunity  came.  He  knew  now  that  he  could  expect  no  aid 
from  Ditton,  who  had  taken  Luck's  side  rather  than  his.  Ditton 

116 


was  jealous  of  hint — meanly  and  contemptibly  jealous.  Had  he 
not  all  along  been  trying  to  keep  him  down  ?  Baretta  told  him- 
self that  he  was  not  such  a  fool  as  not  to  recognize  the  meaning 
of  it.  The  friendship  of  people  who  would  not  have  noticed 
Ditton  at  all  had  aroused  this  jealousy.  Ditton  had  tried  to 
keep  him  away  from  them  by  professing  to  believe  that  he  was 
a  traitor  to  the  cause — he  who  had  turned  his  back  on  all  the 
allurements  of  society,  and  had  gone  to  live  in  Arragon  Street. 
At  other  times  Baretta  had  felt  that  Mrs.  Chilton  and  the  rest 
looked  down  upon  him,  and  had  been  as  furiously  angry  with 
them  as  he  now  was  with  his  present  associates  ;  but  it  was 
quite  as  easy  to  persuade  himself  that  he  was  mistaken  as  to 
believe  that  he  was  right.  He  was  fully  conscious,  at  any  rate, 
of  his  own  mental  superiority  to  either  set,  and  confident  of  his 
ultimate  success  in  showing  it.  A  man  like  him  was  bound  to 
make  his  way  in  spite  of  all. 

Luck  was  maundering  on  about  the  rights  of  the  labouring 
man,  and  the  way  in  which  these  rights  were  disregarded  by 
the  capitalist.  "  You  have  as  good  a  claim  to  your  labour,"  he 
was  saying,  "as  your  employers  have  to  their  mills  and  factories. 
When  they  make  money  you  are  entitled  to  your  share  of  it. 
They  have  no  more  right  to  reduce  your  wages  than  you  have 
to  reduce  their  dividends.  Ain't  you  making  them  rich  by  the 
sweat  of  your  brow  ?  What  would  their  property  be  worth 
to  them  if  it  wasn't  for  you  ?  Suppose  every  working-man  in 
this  city  should  quit  to-morrow,  where  would  your  capital  be 
then  ?  It's  what  you  fellows  have  got  to  do  yet,  if  you  want  to 
teach  the  rich  that  the  poor  have  rights  they  are  bound  to 
respect.  Why  should  they  spend  in  a  day  what  you  earn  in  a 
year  ?  Answer  me  that !" 

The  agitator  went  on  in  this  strain  for  some  time,  beiig  fre- 
quently interrupted  by  the  applause  of  his  hearers,  v\o  perhaps 
did  not  follow  his  arguments  very  closely,  but  who  recognized 
the  fact  that  he  was  giving  it  to  the  other  side.  As  to  the  par- 
ticular strike  in  hand  he  had  little  to  say  beyond  advising  the 
men  "  to  stick  it  out,"  and  assuring  them  that  the  company 
would  "  weaken  "  first.  "  They're  making  a  great  bluff,"  said 
Luck,  "  but  we've  got  the  upperhand  of  them  just  the  same. 

117 


Our  pickets  say  there  hain't  been  a  scab  shown  up  at  the  works 
to-day.  Some  of  you  men  are  working  still  at  other  shops,  but 
every  one  of  you  would  throw  up  his  job  to-morrow  to  help  us 
out,  wouldn't  you  ?" 

Several  voices  cried,  "  Yes,  yes !"  loudly,  in  response  to  this 
appeal.  Nevertheless,  there  was  some  shaking  of  heads  over 
this  hint  of  a  "  sympathetic  "  strike.  "  A  man  who's  got  a  job 
likes  to  keep  it  if  he  can,"  growled  one. 

"  That's  just  the  way  some  damn  fools  talk !"  cried  Luck,  re- 
plying to  this  unwelcome  suggestion.  "  Your  job  looks  big  to 
you,  no  doubt,  but  if  you  could  get  not  only  your  rights,  but 
those  of  thousands  of  other  honest  working-men,  by  throwing  it 
up,  would  you  hesitate  long  ?  I  hope  there  ain't  many  men  in 
this  room  who  would." 

"  Chuck  out  the  traitors !"  The  man  who  tendered  this  ad- 
vice rose  unsteadily  from  one  of  the  tables  at  the  back  of  the 
room,  swinging  a  beer  mug  in  his  right  hand.  "  Chuck 'em  out, 
I  say  !" 

At  these  words  a  malignant  smile  came  over  Luck's  face.  "  If 
you're  looking  for  traitors,"  he  shouted,  his  voice  rising  high 
above  the  din  which  the  suggestion  had  aroused,  "  why  don't 
you  begin  with  him  ?"  And  he  pointed  to  Baretta,  who  was  still 
surveying  the  scene  with  folded  arms. 

Instantly  a  profound  silence  fell  upon  the  crowd.  It  was  like 
the  hush  that  precedes  the  storm.  At  first  it  seemed  as  if  no 
one  quite  realized  the  full  meaning  of  the  words.  Then  Baretta, 
white  to  the  very  lips,  sprang  forward. 

"  I  demand  a  hearing !"  he  cried,  in  high-pitched  staccato  tones. 

The  spell  was  broken.  The  reply  was  a  dull  roar  from  the 
cr,';\vd — a  confusion  of  angry  voices  uttering  muttered  threats 
and  e£<?crations.  But  the  young  man  faced  his  enemies  without 
flinching,' and  something  like  admiration  for  his  courageous  atti- 
tude kept  them  from  advancing  upon  him. 

"  Come,  now,  no  hOB.sense — no  fighting  here  !"  Ditton  had 
hitherto  been  watching  the  proceedings  in  silence,  but  he  now 
stepped  forward  with  the  authoritative  air  which  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  use  in  dealing  with  his  followers.  "  You've  no  business 
to  say  a  thing  like  that,"  he  went  on,  addressing  Luck. 

118 


"  What  I  say  I  can  back  up,"  retorted  Luck,  sullenly.  As  he 
spoke  he  stepped  down  from  the  table.  "  If  Barotta  ain't  a  trai- 
tor, let  him  prove  it,  that's  all." 

"  Traitor  !"  cried  Baretta.  "  It's  you  that's  a  damned  scoun- 
drel— deny  it  if  you  can  !" 

"  Look  here  !"  interrupted  Ditton  again.  His  rugged  counte- 
nance was  stern  and  set,  and  his  eyes  flashed  as  he  spoke.  "  We've 
had  enough  of  this  calling  names.  If  you  have  any  charges  to 
bring  against  Luck,  young  man,  or  any  answer  to  make  to  his, 
now  is  your  chance." 

"  Young  man  !"  It  seemed  to  Baretta  as  if  Ditton  had  pur- 
posely tried  to  insult  him  by  calling  him  that ;  and  for  a  moment 
wrath  choked  his  further  utterance.  Nothing  was  more  obvious 
than  the  fact  that  his  former  friend  and  counsellor  was  taking 
sides  against  him.  Because  he  would  no  longer  submit  unques- 
tioningly  to  his  authority,  Ditton  was  determined  to  crush  him. 
But  he  would  show  them  all  that  he  was  superior  to  their  petty 
malice.  "  Yes,  I  suppose  I  am  a  young  man,"  he  said,  trying  to 
regain  his  self-control,  "  but  you've  been  mighty  glad  to  have 
my  help  all  the  same.  And  I  think  I've  done  more  for  every 
man  in  this  room  than  that  fellow,  who  gets  his  living  out  of  the 
wages  of  honest  workmen.  I  don't  drink  champagne  every  day 
and  drive  about  in  carriages." 

"  You're  a  dirty  liar !"  interjected  Luck,  promptly. 

"  Well,  you'll  have  hard  work  to  prove  me  one.  Listen  to  me  !" 
he  cried,  as  the  ominous  murmur  of  anger  arose  once  more  from 
the  crowd,  most  of  whom  had  risen  from  the  tables  and  were 
pressing  nearer  to  the  speaker.  "  I  want  you  to  have  your  rights 
as  much  as  any  man  here.  I'd  go  out  and  blow  up  the  works 
and  shoot  the  manager  if  it  would  do  you  any  good.  I'm  in 
favour  of  strikes  or  of  anything  that  will  get  the  workman  his 
rights.  Don't  make  any  mistake  about  that.  But  I  say  that  a 
man  who  goes  about  as  he  does,  just  stirring  up  trouble,  and  or- 
dering you  to  quit  whenever  he  takes  the  notion,  and  getting  two 
men's  wages  and  his  expenses  every  day  from  the  Union — " 

"  Hear  him  !  He's  down  on  the  Union — he  wants  you  to  work 
with  a  lot  of  damned  scabs."  Luck  drew  his  sleeve  across  his 
forehead  to  wipe  away  the  perspiration,  which  had  gathered  upon 

119 


it  in  beady  drops.  "  Why  don't  you  wipe  up  the  floor  with  his 
bloody  carcass  ?" 

"  Stop  !"  Ditton's  rough  voice  again  subdued  the  rising  din 
of  rage.  "  Violence  is  no  argument.  You'd  better  keep  quiet, 
Luck,  and  for  the  rest  of  you,  if  it  comes  to  that,  I'm  going  to 
see  that  Baretta  has  fair  play." 

"  We're  tired  of  his  lip  !"  cried  some  one  in  the  crowd. 

"  You  won't  have  much  more  of  it,  then,"  retorted  Baretta, 
"  if  you  fellows  mean  to  let  a  low-down  scoundrel — yes,  a  scoun- 
drel— lead  you  about  by  the  nose,  and  live  in  luxury  off  your  earn- 
ings, while  you  starve.  No,  I'm  not  saying  a  word  against  the 
Union.  Where  would  you  be  without  it  ?  The  only  way  you 
can  bring  the  capitalist  to  terms  is  to  combine  among  yourselves 
— do  you  think  I  don't  know  that  ?  But  do  you  call  this  combin- 
ing to  any  purpose  ?  What  good  can  a  few  hundred  of  you  do 
by  stopping  work  ?  I  know  you've  not  been  treated  right,  and  I 
hope  you'll  get  higher  wages  before  you  go  back.  I  tell  you, 
though,  you  can't  do  anything  by  a  strike  here  and  a  strike  there. 
What  you  must  do  is  to  make  a  combination  so  strong  that  noth- 
ing can  resist  you — not  even  the  whole  power  of  the  United 
States.  Then  you'll  get  somewhere  and  do  something." 

"  And  might  I  ask,"  inquired  Ditton,  "  how  you  propose  to 
form  such  a  combination  ?" 

"  Oh,  my  plans  are  not  all  developed  yet,  Mr.  Ditton.  I'll 
leave  that  to  your  superior  genius.  All  I  have  to  say  is  this — 
that  if  every  workman  in  the  country,  from  Boston  to  New  Or- 
leans and  New  York  to  San  Francisco,  should  become  members 
of  a  single  organization,  no  man  living  would  dare  to  stand  up 
against  them.  Their  moral  force  would  be  irresistible,  because 
it  would  be  backed  by  physical  force.  The  tools  of  Wall  Street 
would  know  then  that  our  threats  meant  something.  And  if 
they  didn't — well,  powder  is  cheap,  and  that  sort  of  argument 
would  be  very  effective." 

"  Damn  all  this  fine  talk  1"  broke  out  Luck,  impatiently.  "  Are 
you  a  traitor  or  ain't  you  ?  That's  what  we  want  to  know." 

"  You're  right,  Luck — that's  what  we  want  to  know."  And 
the  crowd  pressed  a  little  nearer  to  Baretta.  He  had  never  been 
especially  popular  with  them  ;  they  disliked  what  they  called  his 

120 


haughty  way.  Perhaps  Dolan  had  stimulated  this  dislike.  Ba- 
retta  saw  him  now,  standing  in  the  very  fore-front  of  his  hostile 
audience.  Furthermore,  he  felt  that  the  decision  would  go 
against  him.  The  explanation  which  he  had  given  of  his  atti- 
tude seemed  very  lucid  to  himself,  but  it  had  evidently  been 
rather  confusing  to  the  rest.  He  had  never  had  the  gift  of  strik- 
ing the  popular  note.  Indeed,  in  this  Socialist  propaganda  he 
had  almost  invariably  left  the  public  speaking  to  Ditton,  his  own 
field  being  the  individual  argument.  Perhaps  his  lack  of  author- 
ity over  these  uneducated  men  was  due  to  his  hardly  disguised 
contempt  for  them.  Ditton  often  spoke  to  them  roughly,  but 
still  it  was  with  a  fraternal  feeling  which  they  were  quick  to  ap- 
preciate. 

"  Isn't  my  word  as  good  as  his  ?"  demanded  Baretta,  in  answer 
to  this  accusation  of  bad  faith.  "  What  do  you  mean  by  being 
a  traitor,  anyway  ?  Who  have  I  betrayed  ?  Haven't  I  given  my 
life  to  working  for  you  ?  For  one  thing,  I  don't  get  any  four 
dollars  a  day  and  expenses.  Perhaps  you  think  because  I've 
got  a  few  friends  among  the  rich  that  I'm  going  back  on  you. 
Well,  I'm  not — all  that  I  want  to  do  is  to  make  them  your  friends, 
too.  We  don't  any  of  us  care  about  fighting  people  who  are 
willing  to  come  to  our  terms."  Baretta  paused  a  moment  to 
note  the  effect  of  his  words.  Perhaps  he  imagined  that  he  was 
really  moving  his  hearers  a  little — that  he  was  bringing  them 
about  to  his  way  of  thinking.  But  he  was  soon  undeceived  upon 
this  point.  Luck  had  been  working  his  way  into  the  midst  of 
the  crowd  during  the  last  few  minutes,  and  now  he  raised  his 
voice  again — this  time  to  some  purpose. 

"  We've  had  about  enough  gab,  boys,"  he  cried.  "  Down  with 
him  !" 

With  a  roar  of  passionate  animosity  far  more  terrible  than  the 
first  outburst  had  been,  the  furious  mob  surged  forward.  Ba- 
retta fell  back  trembling  before  the  onset.  He  was  no  coward, 
but  the  impulse  of  flight  was  a  natural  one  under  such  circum- 
stances. But  when  he  saw  how  completely  hemmed  in  he  was 
he  turned  and  faced  his  antagonists  boldly.  They  might  kill 
him,  but  he  would  sell  his  life  dear.  A  sudden  paroxysm  of 
wrath  swept  over  him,  and  one  or  two  of  the  leaders  actually 

121 


fell  back  a  step  or  two  when  they  looked  into  his  livid  face  and 
flashing  eyes. 

"  Down  with  the  dirty  villain  !"  howled  Dolan,  noting  their 
hesitation.  "Hit  him  on  the  head  —  look  out  for  his  dom 
knife !" 

But  here  this  one  man  against  many  had  the  aid  of  an  un- 
expected ally.  Ditton  had  been  disposed  to  take  Luck's  part 
rather  than  Baretta's  in  the  preceding  dispute,  and  perhaps  he, 
too,  believed  that  Baretta  was  playing  his  associates  false ;  it 
will  be  remembered  that  he  had  hinted  as  much  on  a  previous 
occasion.  But  that  question  was  of  little  account  when  a  possi- 
ble murder  was  the  issue.  No  one  there  might  have  any  inten- 
tion of  killing  the  young  man,  but  in  a  crowd  like  that,  angry 
and  revengeful,  who  could  tell  what  would  happen  ?  So  Ditton 
sprang  to  Baretta's  side. 

"  Back,  back !"  he  cried.     "  Leave  him  alone  !" 

"  Down  with  him — jump  on  the  dom  cuss  !"  It  was  Dolan 
who  had  taken  Luck's  place  as  ringleader,  and  it  was  obvious 
that  he  intended  to  do  all  the  mischief  he  could.  Besides,  the 
pressure  from  behind  was  now  so  great  that  those  in  front  were 
forced  forward.  Baretta  braced  himself  for  the  inevitable  onset, 
keeping  his  eyes  on  Dolan.  He  had  grasped  the  back  of  a  chair 
as  if  for  support.  Now  suddenly  he  raised  it  aloft  and  brought 
it  down  with  all  the  force  he  could  command  upon  Dolan's  head. 
The  man  fell  heavily  to  the  floor  with  a  loud  groan. 

"  What  the  devil  did  you  do  that  for  ?"  whispered  Ditton  in 
his  ear.  "  Now's  your  chance — run  !  run  !" 

"I'll  not  run  —  I'll  stay  if  they  kill  me!"  shouted  Baretta. 
His  action  in  felling  Dolan  seemed  to  have  increased  rather  than 
diminished  his  fury ;  when  a  man  has  once  lost  control  of  him- 
self in  that  way  a  blind  physical  courage  is  instinctive.  It  was 
quite  true  that  he  had  a  chance  to  escape.  The  way  to  the  door 
was  clear,  the  crowd  being  for  the  moment  apparently  dazed  by 
the  suddenness  of  the  attack  on  its  leader.  But  it  was  only  a 
chance,  and  it  was  gone  almost  immediately.  Two  men  stopped 
to  drag  Dolan  out  of  the  way.  Two  more  made  a  dash  at  Ba- 
retta. It  was  out  of  the  question  that  he  should  hold  his  own 
against  them.  He  was  slightly  built,  and  not  in  the  least  mus- 

122 


cular,  and  although  he  struck  out  savagely,  he  was  no  formidable 
opponent.  In  a  minute  he  was  down,  pinioned  on  each  side,  in 
spite  of  his  struggles. 

"  Kick  him  !"  "  Knock  the  guts  out  of  him  !"  "  Smash  his 
bloody  head  !"  These  were  the  directions  which  came  from  the 
excited  men.  Ditton  was  trying  to  push  them  back  by  main 
force.  He  gesticulated  and  argued,  and  even  threatened.  But 
they  were  in  an  ugly  temper  by  this  time,  and  the  yells  of  Luck 
and  one  or  two  others  for  revenge  upon  "  the  dirty  scab  " — Ba- 
retta  being  characterized  in  this  phrase  because  of  the  odium  it 
conveyed  rather  than  because  of  any  fitness  in  it  under  the  pres- 
ent circumstances — were  sufficient  to  counterbalance  even  Dit- 
ton's  authority. 

"  Try  that  agin — will  ye  ?"  cried  one  of  those  who  were  hold- 
ing down  the  prostrate  and  panting  young  man.  "  Take  that !" 
Ha  hit  him  a  savage  blow  in  the  face,  drawing  blood. 

"  Take  that — and  that !"  Another  of  the  crowd  was  kicking 
him  furiously,  and  when  Ditton  sprang  forward  to  drag  the  as- 
sailant away,  he  himself  was  seized  from  behind  and  firmly  held. 
"  Let  the  fellow  go — there'll  be  murder  if  you  don't  look  out !" 
cried  Ditton,  struggling  to  free  himself.  "  Let  me  alone — how 
dare  you  hold  me  ?" 

But  what  Ditton  could  not  do  was  done  by  a  waiter,  who,  at- 
tracted by  the  tumult,  rushed  in  at  this  juncture.  "  The  cops  !" 
he  shouted. 

Perhaps  even  then  the  exasperated  men  might  not  have 
paid  much  attention  except  that  the  gas  was  suddenly  shut 
off,  which  led  every  one  to  stop  crowding  forward  to  the  cor- 
ner where  Baretta  lay,  and  to  ask  his  neighbour  what  was 
up.  The  answer  to  this  question  was  given  in  the  voice  of  the 
proprietor  of  the  place,  who  came  in  from  the  public  bar  ad- 
joining. 

"  Youse  fellers  had  better  git,"  he  said,  calmly,  but  with  an  air 
of  determination  from  which  no  one  ventured  to  appeal.  "An* 
if  youse  can't  behave  yersel's  better'n  this,  youse  can  go  somers 
else  nex'  time.  See  ?" 

"  It's  all  right,  Tim,"  said  some  one.  "  The  young  feller  ain't 
hurt  much." 

123 


"  Well,  youse  all  pay  up  and  git  out.  See  ?"  He  turned  at 
the  door  into  the  bar  to  add  :  "  Ther'  ain't  no  cop,  but  there'll  be 
a  dozen  on  'em  damn  quick  if  youse  ain't  lively.  Turn  on  the 
lights  agin,  Max." 

124 


CHAPTER  XIII 
BARETTA  LEAVES  AHRAGON  STREET 

BARETTA  opened  his  eyes  to  find  himself  lying  on  a  lounge  in 
an  unfamiliar  room,  small  and  dimly  lit.  At  first  he  thought  that 
he  was  alone,  but  when  he  looked  up  a  second  time  he  saw  Dit- 
ton  bending  over  him.  At  the  same  moment  he  became  con- 
scious of  a  queer  paiu  in  his  temples,  and  putting  up  his  hand 
found  that  his  head  was  bandaged. 

"  Sh,  sh !"  commanded  Ditton.  "  Keep  as  quiet  as  you 
can.  I'll  get  a  carriage  to  take  you  home  when  you  feel  strong 
enough." 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  What  have- 1  been  doing  ?"  murmured 
Baretta,  He  had  an  indistinct  notion  that  he  had  been  address- 
ing a  great  crowd  of  men,  and  that  suddenly  they  had  all  rushed 
at  him,  knocking  him  down  and  trampling  on  him.  But  he  could 
not  imagine  what  it  meant  or  how  it  had  happened. 

"  If  you  hadn't  knocked  Dolan  down  you  could  have  got  away 
all  right.  It  was  that  which  made  them  so  mad." 

"  Oh — it  was  Dolan,  was  it  ?"  A  dim  recollection  of  the  scene 
was  beginning  to  drift  back  into  Baretta's  mind.  "  Maud's  fa- 
ther— poor  Maud !"  he  muttered,  indistinctly. 

"  What's  that  you  say  ?"  asked  Ditton.  He  applied  some  more 
cold  water  to  the  young  man's  forehead  with  a  sponge  and  patted 
the  bandage  gently.  "  Does  it  pain  you  much  now  ?" 

"  Well,  there's  a  good  deal  of  thumping  and  throbbing  going 
on.  Who  the  deuce  hit  me  such  a  blow  as  that  ?" 

"  Ah,  you  don't  remember  ?" 

"  I'm  beginning  to,"  said  Baretta,  after  a  moment  of  silence, 
"  It's  all  that  damned  Luck  I" 

125 


"  Well,  if  you  care  for  my  opinion,  I  must  say  that  you  brought 
it  on  yourself.  What  did  you  mean  by  calling  him  a  scoundrel  ? 
I  think  you  must  have  been  beside  yourself  with  rage." 

"I  only  told  the  truth;  you'll  find  it  out  yourself  some  day." 

To  this  prediction  Ditton  made  no  reply.  He  stood  surveying 
the  young  man  for  some  time  with  a  puzzled  expression.  "  I 
wish  I  knew  what  to  make  of  you,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  Of  me  ?" 

"  You  can't  come  to  our  meetings  again  ;  of  course  you  realize 
that." 

"  Well,  who  wants  to  come  ?" 

"  Ah,  I'm  afraid  Luck  was  right."  Ditton  shook  his  head 
rather  sorrowfully.  Then,  as  Baretta  said  nothing  in  reply,  he 
added,  "  You  just  stay  there  till  I  come  back.  I'm  going  to 
get  a  carriage — you  never  can  walk  home  in  the  world." 

Was  he,  then,  very  much  hurt?  Baretta  asked  himself  after 
Ditton  had  gone.  That  pain  in  his  temples  was  the  worst,  but 
when  he  tried  to  move  he  found  that  one  shoulder  was  stiff  and 
aching,  and  that  his  legs  were  sore  with  bruises.  His  notion  that 
he  had  been  knocked  down  and  trampled  upon  was  obviously 
not  an  imaginary  one.  How  had  it  happened  ?  He  remembered 
now  that  he  had  rushed  forward  to  denounce  Luck,  and  that  Dit- 
ton had  refused  to  allow  him  a  hearing.  Perhaps  his  wrath  was 
hotter  against  Ditton  than  against  Luck  just  at  present.  The 
talk  about  treachery  came  back  to  him,  and  he  felt  that  it  was 
his  old  master  who  had  been  the  traitor.  Nothing  but  jealousy 
could  have  prevented  him  from  taking  the  part  of  so  faithful  a 
disciple.  Of  course  that  mob  of  ignorant  fools  had  taken  their 
cue  from  their  real  leader,  not  from  Luck.  Baretta  was  not  in 
the  least  grateful  to  Ditton  for  his  efforts  to  prevent  the  scrim- 
mage that  had  taken  place.  If  they  had  been  sincere  they  would 
have  been  more  successful.  He  began  to  recall  now  with  more 
distinctness  the  events  which  had  preceded  his  fainting  away 
under  the  cruel  kicks  and  cuffs  of  his  assailants.  No  doubt  they 
would  have  killed  him  if  they  had  not  been  interrupted.  He 
could  see  once  more  the  evil  glance  in  Dolan's  eyes.  Dolan  ! — 
he  had  fallen  with  a  groan.  Was  he  dead,  and  was  he  himself 
a  murderer  ?  "  Maud's  father — poor  Maud  !"  he  murmured  once 

126 


more.  What  awful  shadow  had  come  between  them  now  ? 
Poor  Maud,  indeed  ;  he  knew  too  well  what  a  burden  of  suffer- 
ing this  would  throw  upon  her.  Poor  Maud  !  who  had  loved 
him  so  passionately  !  He  groaned  aloud.  This  agony  of  the 
mind  was  worse  than  bodily  pain. 

"The  carriage  is  here,"  said  Ditton,  returning  presently.  "  We 
can  take  you  through  the  side  door.  There  is  no  one  in  the 
back  room  now.  Wait  a  minute  —  you  can't  walk;  we  must 
carry  you  out." 

"  Where  will  you  carry  me  ?     To  jail  ?" 

"  What  nonsense  are  you  talking  now.  You  want  to  get 
home  and  have  a  doctor  look  at  that  cut.  By-the-way,  have 
you  any  money?"  asked  Ditton,  running  his  hands  into' his 
pockets.  "  I  haven't  but  fifty  cents." 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  tell  me  the  truth  ?"  demanded  Baretta, 
impatiently.  "Is — is  he  dead?" 

"  Is  who  dead  ?" 

x"  Why,  I  thought  I  might  have  killed  him — wasn't  it  Dolan 
that  I  struck  ?" 

"  I  guess  Dolan's  got  a  sore  head,  but  it  ain't  half  as 
bad  as  yours.  Where  do  you  carry  your  money?  In  this 
pocket?  Let  me  see  how  much  you've  got."  Ditton  fumbled 
about  and  finally  drew  out  a  roll  of  bills.  "You're  better 
fixed  than  I  am,"  he  said,  rather  bitterly,  beginning  to 
count  it.  "  Twenty  dollars !  Well,  you  are  one  of  the  capital- 
ists." 

"  I  was  paid  that  this  morning  for  my  two  articles  in  the 
Mail.  You  needn't  jeer  at  me — there  wouldn't  have  been 
much  of  it  left  by  to-morrow.  But  I  suppose  you  won't  take 
anything  from  me  now." 

"  You'll  want  it  all  before  you  get  through.  Well,  I  suppose 
you  can  pay  the  hackman  half  a  dollar  for  taking  you  to  Ar- 
ragon  Street.  I'll  pay  for  myself." 

"  No,  you  won't,  Mr.  Ditton.  You  needn't  go  at  all  if  you 
don't  like." 

"  You  acted  like  a  fool,  Baretta,  but  I  ain't  the  kind  of  a 
man  to  go  back  on  you  when  you're  in  trouble."  He  went  to 
the  door  leading  to  the  bar,  and  called  to  some  one  on  the 

127 


other  side.  "  Come  in  and  lend  a  hand,  can't  you  ?  He'll 
have  to  be  carried  out." 

uBut,  see  here,  Ditton — I  can  never  go  back  to  Arragon 
Street," 

"  Nonsense  !     Where  else  can  you  go  ?" 

"  Anywhere  but  there.     Get  me  a  room  somewhere." 

"  Are  you  afraid  of  Dolan  ?" 

"  I'm  not  afraid  of  anybody.  But  I'll  never  enter  his  house 
again." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  don't  know  as  I  blame  you.  You  take  him  on 
that  side,  Max,  and  I'll  take  him  on  this."  As  the  two 
men  lifted  him  a  cry  of  pain  escaped  Baretta's  lips.  "  Are  you 
as  badly  hurt  as  all  that?"  asked  Ditton,  anxiously. 

"  I  can  stand  it — I  can  stand  anything,"  groaned  Baretta, 
with  set  teeth. 

But  he  was  very  pale  and  faint  as  he  leaned  back  in  the 
carriage,  and  at  every  jolt  over  the  rough  pavements  he  drew  in 
his  breath  sharply.  "  Where  are  we  going  ?"  he  asked,  after  a 
few  minutes. 

"  To  my  room — it's  near  at  hand,"  replied  Ditton. 

"  Oh,  but  I  mustn't  give  you  that  trouble.  Send  me  some- 
where else." 

"  Don't  be  foolish,  Baretta.  I've  told  you  I  ain't  the  sort  of 
man  to  go  back  on  a  friend  when  he's  in  trouble." 

"I  didn't  suppose  you  considered  me  a  friend.  You  seemed 
willing  enough  to  back  up  Luck." 

"  See  here,  you're  too  badly  hurt  to  quarrel  any  more 
with  me  or  anybody  else.  You  just  keep  quiet — that's  my 
advice." 

And,  indeed,  when  Baretta  had  been  undressed  and  put  to 
bed  it  was  advice  which  he  was  very  glad  to  follow.  The  doc- 
tor came  presently  and  dressed  the  wound  in  his  forehead,  and 
wrote  a  prescription  for  some  liniment  to  bathe  the  bruises,  ex- 
pressing the  opinion  that  the  patient  would  be  about  again  in  a 
few  days,  but  that  the  blow  on  the  head  had  come  literally  with- 
in an  inch  of  killing  him.  He  furthermore  advised  the  young 
man  to  keep  out  of  bar-room  fights  in  the  future — a  caution 
which  was  hardly  necessary  in  this  case,  and  which  rather  ir- 

128 


ritated  the  recipient  of  it,  who  nevertheless  did  not  try  to  clear 
his  reputation  by  explaining. 

Poor  Maud !  It  was  of  her  whom  Baretta  was  thinking 
most  when  he  was  left  alone  in  the  darkness  and  the  silence. 
Ditton  had  gone  to  Arragon  Street  to  get  some  things  of  his 
which  he  needed,  and,  of  course,  he  would  tell  them  there  ex- 
actly what  had  happened.  Besides,  Dolan  must  have  been 
taken  home  by  this  time.  The  young  man  felt  that  his  late 
landlord's  story  would  not  be  favourable  to  him ;  but  he  knew 
pretty  well  how  Maud  would  feel  about  it,  and  whose  side  she 
would  take.  To  do  him  justice  he  was  unselfishly  anxious — at 
least,  for  the  moment — in  her  behalf.  The  fervour  of  her  love 
for  him  and  the  sincerity  of  her  belief  in  him  had  touched  him 
greatly ;  sometimes  they  had  almost  consoled  him  for  the  sting 
of  his  defeated  aspirations  elsewhere.  Maud,  at  any  rate,  would 
be  sorry  for  him,  lying  on  his  couch  of  pain — the  poetical 
phrase  struck  him  as  happily  descriptive — and  would  even  shed 
tears  for  his  sake.  Well,  of  course,  Miss  Lawrence  would  pity 
him  too,  if  she  knew ;  she  was  always  kind ;  but  he  could  not 
discover,  even  in  imagination,  any  tears  in  her  eyes.  No  doubt 
she  would  grieve  far  more  if  anything  happened  to  her  dog,  a 
wretched,  snarling,  apoplectic  pug ;  he  wondered  what  people 
could  see  to  like  in  dogs.  Would  she,  indeed,  ever  know  ? 
"A  bar-room  fight" — those  where  the  words  the  doctor  had 
used ;  that  was  the  way  the  occurrence  would  get  into  those 
confounded  newspapers.  He  would  have  liked  to  pose  in  her 
eyes  as  a  wounded  hero ;  perhaps  in  that  case  she  might  be  a 
little  proud  of  him ;  she  would  remember  that  Yates  had  never 
been  a  hero  at  all.  But  a  bar-room  fight !  Baretta  shed  a  few 
hot  tears  of  self-pity  and  turned  his  face  to  the  wall. 

He  must  have  fallen  asleep,  for  the  room  was  darker  and 
stiller  than  ever  when  he  opened  his  eyes  again.  How  his 
head  ached — how  his  temples  were  throbbing !  Did  Ditton 
mean  to  leave  him  all  alone  all  night  ?  Could  he  not  have  gone 
to  Arragon  Street  and  got  back  in  all  these  hours  ?  Baretta 
had  not  the  remotest  idea  what  time  it  was,  but  he  fancied 
that  it  must  be  long  past  midnight.  The  noises  of  the  street 
were  few,  although  the  windows  were  open.  To  be  sure,  traffic 

1  129 


•was  not  very  heavy  in  that  neighbourhood  after  nightfall ;  but 
there  were  enough  loungers  about,  and  they  were  usually  fully 
in  evidence.  He  threw  up  his  arms  impatiently,  and  the  sharp 
pain  in  his  injured  shoulder  made  him  cry  aloud.  At  this  mo- 
ment the  door  opened,  and  his  cry  seemed  to  be  echoed  by  some 
one  coming  in. 

"  Frank,  dear,  where  are  you  ?     Oh,  how  dark  it  is  !" 

"  Maud  !     Is  it  you  ?" 

"  Wait  until  I  strike  a  light."  Ditton  fumbled  about  the 
mantel-piece  as  he  spoke,  and  presently  a  tiny  blue  flame  pene- 
trated the  darkness.  He  crossed  the  room,  protecting  its  feeble 
glimmer  by  a  covering  hand.  "  I  couldn't  keep  her  away, 
Baretta.  She  insisted  on  coming  back  with  me." 

"  But  Maud — so  late  as  this  !"  Her  hand  was  in  his  now, 
and  she  was  bending  over  to  kiss  him,  with  a  little  sob,  half  of 
pity,  half  of  alarm,  as  she  saw  by  the  gaslight  how  pale  he  was. 
"  Oh,  Frank !  how  could  they  do  it !" 

"  It  isn't  very  late — it's  only  ten  o'clock,"  said  Ditton.  "  But 
I  couldn't  have  kept  her  away  if  it  had  been  midnight."  He 
smiled  somewhat  grimly,  and  then,  as  neither  spoke,  went  to 
the  door.  "  I  guess  you  don't  want  me,"  he  added,  as  he  left 
them  together. 

"  But  your  father — how  is  he  ?"  asked  Baretta,  regarding  the 
girl  anxiously.  "  Is  he  much  hurt  ?" 

"  Don't  speak  of  him !"  she  cried,  angrily.  "  Oh,  I  never 
want  to  see  him  or  hear  his  name  again.  He  would  have  killed 
you  if  he  could — he  said  so.  I'm  glad  you  hit  him  first — per- 
haps he  won't  be  so  fresh  another  time." 

"I  was  afraid  I'd  killed  him.  What  could  I  do,  though,  with 
the  whole  crowd  against  me  ?" 

"  I  hate  him — oh,  how  I  hate  them  all !"  Maud  had  sprung 
to  her  feet,  and  she  now  stood  looking  down  at  him  with  flash- 
ing eyes.  "  You  mustn't  ever  come  to  that  house  again.  You 
must  stay  away,  and — and,  oh,  Frank !  let  me  stay  with  you." 

"  Maud  !  Maud  !  You  don't  know  what  you're  saying.  How 
could  that  be  ?" 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  don't  want  ine.  You're  thinking  that 
she  wouldn't  say  a  thing  like  that.  But  I  don't  care — I'll  never 

130 


go  back  there  !  I'll  walk  the  streets  first !  Perhaps,"  she  add- 
ed with  a  bitter  laugh,  "  that's  what  I'll  have  to  do  if  you  turn 
me  out." 

"Turn  you  out?     I'm  likely  to  do  that,  lying  here  !" 
"  I'll  go  the  moment  you  speak  the  word,"  said  Maud,  with  a 
queer  assumption  of  dignity, "  but  be  sure  I'll  never  come  back 
to  bother  you." 

Baretta  sighed  impatiently.  It  was  all  very  well  to  have  a 
girl  so  fond  of  you,  but  there  were  times  when  it  was  embar- 
rassing. He  was  not  anxious  to  have  any  more  trouble  with 
Dolan,  and  he  knew  what  construction  that  irate  father  would 
put  upon  his  further  association  with  Maud.  Still,  he  could  not 
tell  her  to  go ;  that  would  be  ungrateful  after  all  she  had  sacri- 
ficed in  coming  to  him.  He  could  imagine  Dolan's  rage  when 
he  discovered  what  she  had  done ;  perhaps  the  door  would  be 
shut  in  her  face  even  if  she  went  back  now.  But  to  stay  here 
— to  defy  even  the  none  too  rigid  moral  sentiment  of  Arragon  - 
Street — that  was  something  which  was  not  to  be  thought  of. 
He  might  send  out  for  a  clergyman  and  marry  her  on  the  spot. 
She  would  think  there  was  something  romantic  in  that,  in  spite 
of  the  obvious  inconveniences  involved. 

"  We  had  better  ask  Mr.  Ditton,"  he  said,  at  last. 
"  Mr.  Ditton  !     What  can  he  tell  us  that  we  don't  know." 
"  But,  Maud,  you  don't  understand,  you  don't  see — " 
"  I  see  all  there  is  to  see,  Frank.     You  don't  want  me — that's 
plain  enough.     Well,  I  was  a  fool  for  coming."      She  turned 
away  to  hide  the  tears  that  rose  to  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  I  want  you — indeed  I  do.  I  appreciate  your  goodness 
in  coming;  there  isn't  one  girl  in  a  thousand  who  would  have 
cared  as  much  as  that.  And  Heaven  knows  I  want  to  take  you 
away  from  that  place  as  soon  as  I  can !  I'd  like  to  marry  you 
this  moment,  Maud,  and  go  away  somewhere,  and  never  see  one 
of  them  again — no,  not  a  single  soul  I  know.  I've  been  giving 
my  whole  life  to  them,  and  this  is  what  has  come  of  it.  But  I 
can't — I  won't — let  you  sacrifice  your  good  name  by  leaving 
your  home  for  me  until — until  I  can  give  you  a  better  one. 
Don't  you  see,  Maud  ?  It's  because  I  love  you  that  I  want  you 
to  go  back,  if  only  for  a  few  days." 

131 


"  That's  all  very  fine,  Frank,  but  I'll  never,  never  set  foot  in 
that  house  again  !  Do  you  hear  me  ?"  she  cried,  stamping  her 
foot  angrily.  "  Never — never,  so  long  as  I  live  !" 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you'll  do  as  you  like,"  said  Baretta.  He 
turned  irritably  upon  his  pillow,  and  the  movement  elicited  a 
stifled  cry  of  pain. 

"  Oh,  are  you  so  badly  hurt  ?  And  I  am  making  it  worse  by 
talking  to  you !  That's  just  like  me."  She  bent  over  the  bed 
with  an  anxious  look  as  she  spoke. 

"  I  don't  feel  much  like  quarrelling  with  you,  to  be  sure.  But 
no — no  !  I'm  not  much  hurt.  Don't  fuss  over  me,  whatever 
you  do." 

"  I  guess  you're  sorry  I  came,"  said  Maud,  with  a  rather  bitter 
laugh.  "  I  might  have  known  how  it  would  be.  Well,  here's 
Mr.  Ditton  now,"  she  added,  as  the  door  opened.  "  He'll  take 
me  back,  I  suppose." 

"  Then  you  will  go  back  ?"  asked  Baretta. 

"  Back — yes ;  but  not  there." 

"  I  guess  we've  talked  enough  to  our  patient,"  said  Ditton, 
coming  forward.  "  Of  course  you'll  go  home,  Miss  Maud.  I 
feel  responsible  for  you,  since  I  brought  you  here." 

"  I'd  have  come  without  any  bringing,  and  I'll  go  away  again. 
I  ain't  the  kind  to  stay  where  they  don't  want  me." 

"  Sh,  sh  !"  said  Ditton,  softly.  "  Don't  say  anything  to  ex- 
cite him.  Just  bid  him  good-night.  Miss  Dolan  is  going  now, 
Baretta.  She  wants  to  say  good  -  night  to  you."  He  turned 
away  with  the  notion  that  the  girl  wished  to  kiss  her  lover,  and 
might  not  like  to  do  it  while  he  was  looking  on. 

"  Yes,  I  only  want  to  say  good-night,  Frank."  Maud  touched 
his  forehead  gently  with  her  hand,  but  she  did  not  offer  to  kiss 
him.  "  I  hope  you'll  feel  much  better  in  the  morning." 

"  But,  Maud,  you'll  come  back  then  ?  And  you'll  go  home 
now  ?" 

"  I  guess  there  ain't  much  telling  what  I'll  do,  is  there,  Mr. 
Ditton  ?"  Her  laugh  was  a  joyless  one,  and  her  eyes  had  in 
them  an  expression  more  of  crying  than  of  laughing.  "  Oh,  you 
needn't  mind  bothering  with  me,"  she  added,  as  Ditton  took  up 
his  hat. 

132 


But  Ditton  held  the  door  open  with  something  of  his  habit- 
ual air  of  authority,  and  the  girl  allowed  him  to  follow  her  from 
the  room  without  any  further  protest. 

Baretta  sighed  again  as  the  door  closed  behind  them.  It  was 
very  kind  of  Maud  to  come,  as  he  had  told  her,  and  yet  he  some- 
how wished  that  she  had  stayed  away.  He  recognized  the  fact 
that  her  claim  upon  him  was  one  important  factor  in  the  prob- 
lem which  now  confronted  him,  but  he  nevertheless  felt  inclined 
to  eliminate  it  for  the  present — at  least,  in  imagination.  He  cer- 
tainly could  do  nothing  to  help  her  until  he  was  able  to  help 
himself.  Of  course  she  must  recognize  the  folly  of  leaving  her 
home  at  this  crisis,  with  no  other  place  to  go  to.  He  was 
willing  to  marry  her  some  day,  although  for  the  present  that 
day  seemed  a  long  way  off.  What  he  feared  was  that  she  would 
not  be  willing  to  wait — that  she  would  do  something  rash  to 
compromise  them  both  and  lead  them  into  some  dilemma,  either 
means  of  escape  out  of  which  would  be  perilous.  It  was  just 
like  her  to  come  away  from  Arragon  Street  with  Ditton  and 
declare  that  she  would  never  go  back.  But  how  was  he  to  sup- 
port a  wife,  lying  here  bruised  and  beaten,  and  cut  off  irrevo- 
cably—  he  recognized  that  —  from  all  the  old  associations? 
Twenty  dollars  from  the  Mail,  and  after  that  perhaps  nothing ! 
It  was  not  a  brilliant  outlook  for  youthful  genius,  which  has  to 
live  in  just  the  same  fashion  as  ordinary  humanity.  Baretta 
had  no  doubt  as  to  his  ultimate  success,  but  he  hardly  saw  his 
way  clear  to  support  himself  meanwhile  on  anticipation.  The 
worst  of  it  was  that  all  the  people  who  were  interested  in  his 
work,  who  would  read  his  writings  and  come  to  his  lectures, 
were  out  of  town,  and  would  not  return  for  several  months  yet. 
They  had  gone  to  Europe — and  to  Beverly  and  such  places — to 
forget  the  wants  of  the  complaining  millions,  of  whom  this  young 
man  now  felt  himself  in  truth  to  be  one.  As  to  the  editor  of 
the  Mail,  perhaps  he  would  not  care  for  any  more  letters ;  Ba- 
retta knew  well  enough  that  "  space  work "  was  uncertain,  al- 
though remunerative,  and  that  unless  a  man  had  more  than  one 
newspaper  to  depend  upon  his  income  was  likely  to  be  slender 
as  well  as  irregular.  Altogether  it  was  a  very  gloomy  outlook 
as  he  viewed  it,  lying  in  this  dim  and  dingy  room  alone  and  in 

133 


pain,  and  without  a  friend  in  the  world — except  Maud,  of  course  ; 
she  was  something  more  than  a  friend.  But  Maud  could  do 
nothing  for  him — nothing  at  least  which  could  be  of  any  use  to 
him.  And  she  might  do  so  much  harm — not  meaning  it,  but 
carelessly  and  impulsively,  and  with  the  best  intentions  in  the 
world,  which  would  make  it  all  the  harder  to  bear.  This  was 
the  last  thought  in  Baretta's  mind  before  he  fell  asleep. 

131 


CHAPTER  XIV 
DAISY  IS  GLAD  TO  SEE  PHILIP 

THE  breeze  had  died  down  since  morning,  and  it  was  so  light 
that,  although  every  stitch  of  canvas  was  set,  the  yacht  moved 
over  the  shining  stretch  of  sea  slowly  and  with  only  a  faint 
ripple  of  water  at  her  bows.  The  sun  was  so  hot  that  Yates, 
who  was  at  the  helm,  was  glad  to  have  the  protection  of  the 
huge  white  main-sail,  in  the  shadow  of  which  he  was  sitting. 
He  had  the  deck  all  to  himself ;  the  others  had  gone  below 
after  luncheon  in  a  drowsy  mood,  and  were  now  stretched  out 
in  the  cabin  asleep.  Now  and  then  a  faint  rattle  from  the 
tiny  compartment  forward,  which  was  dignified  by  the  name  of 
galley,  reminded  him  that  the  man  of  all  work — mate,  steward, 
seaman;  he  might  be  called  all  three — was  still  busy  with  the 
pots  and  pans. 

The  Princess  of  Thule  was  a  sloop-rigged  boat — a  "  forty- 
six-footer"  in  racing  parlance,  although  she  was  built  rather  for 
cruising  than  for  racing,  her  sail  area  being  comparatively  small, 
and  her  spars  and  other  fittings  being  of  the  substantial  kind 
which  will  stand  rough  weather.  Her  owner,  compelled  to 
make  a  flying  trip  across  the  Atlantic,  had  loaned  her  for  a  few 
weeks  to  Yates  and  his  friends — two  men,  who  like  himself 
were  familiar  figures  at  the  Pilgrim  Club — and  this  was  the 
fourth  day  of  their  trip.  They  had  started  out  from  Boston 
harbour  the  day  after  the  great  national  holiday — for  it  was  now 
July,  and  an  oppressive  season  of  heat  brooded  over  all  the 
Eastern  coast — and  had  taken  a  run  to  Plymouth,  thence  to 
Provincetown  ;  now  they  were  heading  across  the  bay  to  Marble- 
head,  from  which  place  they  proposed  to  sail  north-easterly  to 

135 


tbe  Shoals,  to  Mount  Desert,  and  as  far  as  the  waters  of  the 
Passamaquoddy.  On  this  warm  afternoon  the  horizon  was  dim 
with  haze,  and  although  the  Princess  of  Thule  was  now  not 
many  miles  from  Marblehead,  she  might  as  well  have  been  in 
mid-ocean  for  all  that  could  be  seen  from  her  deck.  Occasion- 
ally the  flash  of  some  distant  sail  in  the  sunlight  met  the  roving 
eye ;  but  that  was  all ;  except  that  once  Philip,  looking  south- 
ward, saw  the  long  line  of  black  smoke  left  by  an  outgoing 
ocean  steamship.  This  vague  and  mysterious  silence — this  iso- 
lation from  the  world — was  on  the  whole  rather  grateful  to  him. 
There  were  many  things  which  he  wanted  to  forget ;  so  at  least 
he  told  himself.  Nevertheless,  he  often  took  a  kind  of  mourn- 
ful pleasure  in  remembering  them.  Inconsistencies  of  this  sort 
are  not  uncommon  to  poor  humanity,  although  novelists  and 
historians  have  taken  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  trying  to  explain 
them  away.  Philip  believed  that  he  was  rapidly  reaching  a  state 
of  mind  which  would  enable  him  to  think  of  Mildred  Lawrence 
with  indifference,  although  everything  that  reminded  him  of  her 
still  had  its  association  of  discontent/  He  had  quite  given  up 
hoping  that  she  would  ever  forgive  him.  He  did  not  think  that 
his  offence  ought  to  be  considered  irreparable,  but  since  she 
evidently  considered  it  so,  he  understood  well  enough  that  there 
was  nothing  more  to  be  said.  Perhaps  he  might  have  been 
angry  with  her,  and  thus  have  forgotten  her  more  easily,  had  it 
not  been  for  her  confession  that  she  still  loved  him.  He  him- 
self thought  of  love  as  always  meaning  forgiveness.  Women, 
however,  had  a  great  many  strange  ideas.  One  of  Mildred's 
strange  ideas  had  been  the  belief  that  he  was  capable  of  great 
achievements.  Why  she  should  ever  have  held  it,  he  could  not 
imagine.  He  knew  that  he  was  clever  enough  in  a  way,  but 
cleverness  is  too  common  a  quality  nowadays  to  call  for  much 
remark.  If  a  man  had  only  the  courage  he  could  make  more  of 
a  reputation  by  becoming  phenomenally  stupid.  Women  have 
done  that,  but  the  masculine  intellect  is  not  capable  of  such 
subtleties.  Just  at  present  Philip  was  not  even  trying  to  be 
clever.  He  had  locked  up  his  rooms  in  Livingstone  Place  and 
had  come  away  from  the  city  in  disgust.  Of  what  use  were  his 
amateurish  efforts  to  win  literary  distinction  when  even  his  book 

136 


reviews  for  the  Mail  were  pronounced  by  the  editor  hardly  up 
to  the  mark  ?  Idleness  was  more  profitable  than  that  kind  of 
industry.  Here  in  this  shining  world  of  sky  and  sea  a  man 
could  sometimes  forget  that  he  had  ever  been  ambitious,  and 
let  life  drift  by  as  it  would. 

"You  don't  look  as  if  you  were  enjoying  it  very  much,  Yates." 
It  was  young  Lawrence  Harding  who  spoke,  surveying  him  from 
the  companionway.  "We  seem  to  be  running  into  a  dead  calm," 
lie  added,  as  the  sail  gave  an  ominous  flap. 

"  You  are  so  confoundedly  cheerful  yourself,  Lawrence,"  said 
Philip. 

"  I  have  to  be  cheerful  enough  for  two  when  you're  around." 
He  came  aft,  yawning.  "Ain't  you  tired  of  this?  We  might 
as  well  let  her  drift." 

Philip  gave  the  wheel  into  Harding's  hands  without  a  word, 
and  gazed  blankly  over  the  dead  surface  of  the  water.  "  I 
dare  say  I'm  tired  of  everything,"  he  muttered. 

"  Oh,  I  say,  Phil !"  cried  Harding.  "  Yoa  ought  to  take  a 
brace.  It's  no  good  brooding  over  things." 

Yates  turned  and  looked  at  him  sharply.  "  See  here,  Law- 
rence," he  said,  "  I  like  you,  but  there  are  some  matters  I  don't 
want  you  to  talk  about." 

"What  matters?  Your  long  face?"  asked  the  young  man 
with  a  laugh.  He  was  related  to  the  Lawrences — his  mother  and 
Sibley  Lawrence  were  cousins — and  he  knew  very  well  of  what 
the  other  was  thinking.  He  was  not  offended  by  Philip's 
brusqueness,  because,  as  he  afterwards  told  George  Linley,  the 
third  member  of  their  party,  the  poor  devil  had  been  hard 
hit.  He  had  very  little  patience  with  Mildred,  who,  if  she 
couldn't  appreciate  a  thoroughly  good  fellow,  deserved  never 
to  marry  at  all.  But  he  did  not  put  the  case  in  this  way  just 
then. 

"  That's  the  worst  of  a  sailboat,"  Philip  went  on  after  a  mo- 
ment. "You  can't  get  anywhere  when  you  want  to." 

"  Oh,  well,  what's  the  hurry  ?  Jack  won't  want  his  boat  for 
a  month.  When  a  fellow  goes  over  there  he  always  stays  longer 
than  he  expects." 

But  to  this  Philip  made  no  reply.  Instead,  he  went  forward, 

137 


and  presently  stretched  himself  out  at  full  length  on  the  deck, 
gazing  upward  into  vacancy. 

It  was  no  wonder  that  young  Harding  should  afterwards  con- 
fide to  Linley  his  opinion  that  Yates  had  been  hard  hit,  express- 
ing at  the  same  time  a  sarcastic  wish  to  see  the  girl  who  could 
break  him  up  like  that. 

"  I  call  it  a  deuced  shame,"  said  Linley.  "  Oh,  I  beg  your 
pardon." 

"  Don't  mind,  because  she's  my  cousin,  George ;  I  gave  her 
my  opinion  some  time  ago.  She  won't  hardly  speak  to  me 
now." 

"  Women  are  a  queer  lot,  anyway,"  said  Linley,  philosoph- 
ically. It  was  evening,  and  the  sun  was  going  down  upon  a 
glassy  sea.  Hardly  a  breath  of  air  could  be  felt,  and  the  great 
sail  lay  useless  like  a  broken  wing.  "  See  how  that  match 
burns — not  a  flicker,"  he  added  as  he  lit  his  pipe.  "  I  dare  say 
we'll  have  to  stay  where  we  are  until  morning.  I'd  like  to  get 
into  Marblehead,  if  only  to  stretch  my  legs  a  bit.  Yes,  they're 
a  queer  lot,"  he  continued,  watching  the  smoke  curl  slowly  up- 
ward. "  There's  my  sister,  now ;  what  can  you  make  out  of  a 
girl  like  that,  who  goes  to  the  Annex  and  takes  honours  in 
mathematics  ?  What  good  is  analytics  to  her  ?  Didn't  you  get 
conditioned  in  them  the  Freshman  year?  I  did,  anyway.  Hullo, 
Yates !  Why  don't  you  throw  away  that  beastly  cigarette  and 
have  a  pipe  ?  Lawry  and  I  have  just  agreed  that  we  can't 
understand  girls." 

Philip  reddened  with  the  consciousness  that  this  conclusion 
had  been  the  result  of  a  discussion  of  his  own  experience.  But 
he  merely  said,  "  Well,  that  ought  to  save  you  a  good  deal  of 
worry." 

"  Oh,  we  like  them  just  as  much ;  in  fact,  it's  the  mystery 
that  makes  them  charming.  Don't  you  know  how  quickly  a 
married  man  gets  over  any  sentimental  fondness  for  his  wife  ?" 

"  You're  a  hardened  man  of  the  world,  George — we  all  know 
that." 

"  I  dare  say  you  mean  that  for  chaff,  Yates,"  retorted  Linley, 
good-humouredly. 

But  the  discussion  of  the  baffling  problem  of  the  Ewig- 

138 


Weibliche  was  dropped  at  this  point.  It  was  really  a  more  in- 
teresting question  just  then  to  know  when  they  would  get  to 
Marblehead.  There  was  no  answering  it  that  night,  however. 
Linley  and  Harding  sat  up  until  past  twelve  o'clock  over  their 
pipes  and  beer,  while  Philip,  whose  watch  on  deck  it  was  to  be 
until  the  man  relieved  him  at  four,  turned  in  for  a  few  hours  of 
sleep  below.  At  that  time  the  black  surface  of  the  sea  scarcely 
moved,  except  with  the  slow  swinging  motion  of  the  ebbing 
tide.  But  as  the  eastern  sky  began  to  lighten  a  fresh  breeze 
sprang  up,  and  before  Philip  went  below  again  he  could  see 
streaks  of  rippling  shadow  on  the  gray  waste  of  waters. 

It  was  finally  a  good  stiff  breeze  which  carried  them  into 
Marblehead  early  in  the  forenoon,  and  the  wind  was  blowing 
half  a  gale  when  they  started  out  again  late  in  the  afternoon. 

"  We  shall  get  plenty  of  it  to-night,"  said  Linley.  And  in- 
deed it  looked  that  way,  as  the  little  vessel  dashed  forward 
bravely  into  the  tumbling  waves,  flinging  the  spray  from  her 
bows.  It  was  from  the  east  that  this  stiff  breeze  came,  and 
they  were  running  into  it  close-hauled,  making  a  long  tack  a 
little  to  the  south. 

"  Now  she  begins  to  show  up  to  advantage,"  observed  Har- 
ding, scanning  the  yacht  critically  from  bowsprit  to  top-mast. 
"  She  isn't  much  good  in  a  light  breeze,  but  in  weather  like  this 
she's  a  dandy." 

"  Oh  yes,  she'll  do  very  well,"  said  Linley.  "  But  I  think 
Madcap  could  beat  her.  Have  you  ever  been  out  in  her  ?" 

"Madcap — that's  Carver's  boat,  isn't  it?"  asked  Yates. 

"  Madcap  /"  cried  young  Harding.  "  Why,  she  simply  isn't 
in  it  with  the  Princess.  Anyway,  she's  a  bigger  boat — a  seven- 
ty-footer, ain't  she,  Yates  ?" 

"  If  it's  Carver's  boat,  I  should  think  she  was  more  than 
that." 

"Oh  yes  —  Carver  still  owns  Madcap,"  said  Harding.  "I 
think  lie  and  his  wife  took  a  long  cruise  in  her  last  fall — went 
to  the  Mediterranean  or  somewhere." 

"  Nonsense — a  woman  crossing  the  ocean  in  a  sailboat  ?" 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Carver  would  go  anywhere  ;  she's  just  the  jolly 
sort  of  woman  I  like,"  declared  Harding.  "  There's  no  foolish- 

139 


ness   about   her  —  as   there   is   about    most   girls,"  he  added, 
sagely. 

Linley  laughed.  "  Wait  till  one  of  them  catches  you,  my 
boy." 

But  Lawrence  Harding,  who  was  still  a  very  young  man, 
smiled  contemptuously  at  the  thought  of  any  woman  who  could 
catch  him.  That  the  chief  feminine  pursuit  was  masculine 
game  he  did  not  for  a  moment  doubt. 

"  You'll  find  girls  enough  at  the  Shoals,"  put  in  Yates,  pres- 
ently, looking  up  from  the  paper  he  was  reading.  It  was  a 
copy  of  the  morning's  Mail  which  he  had  bought  at  Marble- 
head. 

"  Shoals  of  them — eh,  George  ?"  asked  Lawrence,  making  this 
atrocious  jest  with  an  unabashed  countenance. 

But  Linley  very  properly  ignored  his  friend's  would-be  wit. 
"  My  sister  is  there,  for  one,"  he  said,  "  if  you  can  call  an  Annex 
girl  who  has  taken  honours  in  mathematics  a  girl  at  all.  And 
so  is  Daisy  Tredwell." 

"  Daisy  Tredwell  ?  Oh,  I  like  her  immensely.  She's  the 
jolly  sort,  too." 

"  Well,  you  look  out  for  her  then,  Lawry,  because  she's  a  con- 
founded little  flirt." 

"  She's  no  worse  than  the  rest,"  said  Lawrence.  "  What  do 
you  say,  Yates  ?" 

"  How's  that  ?"  asked  Philip,  looking  up  from  hj.s  paper.  "  I 
didn't  hear  what  you  said." 

"  I  couldn't  find  anything  to  interest  me,"  observed  Lawrence, 
"  not  even  in  the  report  of  yesterday's  game." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  was  reading  an  item  about  a  fellow  1  know 
which — which  amused  me  a  good  deal."  But  truth  to  tell  the 
expression  upon  his  face  was  not  precisely  one  of  amusement. 

"  Let  us  have  the  joke,  then,"  said  Linley. 

"  I  dare  say  you  don't  know  him — it  is  of  no  particular  ac- 
count, after  all,"  said  Philip,  folding  up  the  paper  and  thrusting 
it  in  his  pocket.  "  He's  a  queer  sort,  but  clever ;  the  Mail  is 
glad  to  print  his  stuff,  at  any  rate,"  Philip  added,  with  a  curious 
sense  of  personal  injury.  "  Only  if  you  knew  him  you  would 
be  amused  to  hear  that  he  was  a  stray  baron  in  disguise." 

140 


"  What  has  he  been — a  waiter  or  a  barber  ?"  asked  Lawrence, 
jocosely. 

"  He's  been  a  Socialist." 

"  By  Jove !  I  wonder  if  it's  the  fellow  my  sister  was  talking 
about  one  day,"  broke  in  Linley.  "  She  met  him  at  some  liter- 
ary feed  or  other.  I  don't  remember  where  ;  I  never  pay  much 
attention  to  those  things.  But  she  was  telling  about  a  Socialist 
whom  she  wanted  to  have  come  and  talk  some  rot  or  other  at 
our  house,  and  then  didn't  want  because  he  was  too  much  off 
colour  even  for  her  taste.  It  must  be  the  man." 

"  Oh  yes — I  fancy  it  was  Baretta,"  said  Philip.  "  He's  be- 
ginning to  go  to  'literary  feeds,' as  you  call  them  —  though 
where  there's  the  most  literary  provender  there's  the  least  sub- 
stantial food." 

"  Daisy  Tredwell  goes  in  for  that  kind  of  thing,"  said  Har- 
ding. "  She  thinks  they're  great  fun.  She  was  telling  me  about 
Mrs.  Chilton's  afternoons.  But  I  should  think  Mrs.  Chilton 
might  be  rather  a  jolly  sort,  too,  I  dare  gay  you  know  her, 
Yates." 

"What's  this  about  Baretta  —  is  that  his  name?"  asked 
Linley. 

"  If  you  are  so  much  interested  in  him  I'll  read  you  what  the 
Mail  says  about  him,"  replied  Philip,  pulling  the  paper  from  his 
pocket.  "  Oh,  here  it  is.  '  Readers  of  the  interesting  series  of 
letters  on  Socialism  in  the  Mail,  by  Francis  Baretta,  will  be  in- 
terested to  learn  that  Mr.  Baretta,  who  is  recovering  from  his 
recent  severe  illness  and  whose  interesting  sketch  of  the  Social- 
ist preacher  Ditton  is  printed  in  another  column,  is  a  Hungarian 
of  the  noble  family  of  Smolzow,  a  name  familiar  in  Magyar 
annals,  and  the  rightful  inheritor  of  the  title  of  Baron  Smolzow — 
his  father,  a  cousin  of  the  late  baron,  having  come  to  this  coun- 
try during  the  troubles  in  1848.'  What  will  your  sister  think 
of  Baretta  now,  Linley  ?" 

"  Oh,  when  she  takes  a  dislike  you  can't  convince  her.  She'll 
probably  insist  that  he's  no  baron  at  all." 

"  As  to  that,  I  confess  I  have  my  own  doubts.  But  no," 
added  Philip,  quickly,  "  that's  hardly  fair.  I  have  no  reason 
for  disputing  it," 

141 


Nevertheless,  when  he  came  to  think  it  over,  he  could  not 
dismiss  quite  so  easily  his  feeling  of  incredulity.  He  could  not 
escape  the  conviction  that  Baretta  was  not  a  gentleman,  although 
he  would  have  hesitated  to  put  this  conviction  into  words. 
How  could  Mildred  endure  him  ?  That  was  the  question  which 
he  was  asking  himself.  The  thought  occurred  to  him  once 
more  that  perhaps  Baretta  had  exaggerated  his  intimacy  with 
the  Lawrences.  No  doubt  they  had  been  kind  to  him.  Sibley 
Lawrence  was  always  picking  up  proteges  at  those  Working- 
men's  Clubs  and  Mutual  Improvement  Unions ;  his  philanthro- 
py was  perfectly  undiscriminating.  But  a  man  had  no  right 
to  take  every  clever  adventurer  into  his  house,  especially  when 
he  had  a  young  and  pretty  daughter.  If  Mrs.  Lawrence  had 
lived  it  would  have  been  quite  different.  Philip  could  under- 
stand why  Mildred  should  find  a  good  many  of  her  natural  as- 
sociates stupid  and  should  want  to  go  to  houses  like  Mrs.  Chil- 
ton's,  where  the  intellectual  atmosphere,  if  not  always  the  most 
exhilarating,  was  at  least  not  dense.  Philip  did  not  know  Mrs. 
Chilton,  but  he  had  been  to  enough  teas  and  "  evenings "  to 
know  how  semi -Bohemian,  semi -fashionable  Boston  conducts 
itself  on  such  occasions.  They  varied  from  the  decorous  recep- 
tions of  Mrs.  Cadwallader,  the  wife  of  the  celebrated  artist,  to 
the  fearful  revels  held  on  Sunday  nights  by  Mrs.  Grayling,  the 
wife  of  the  learned  professor  of  paleontology,  where  the  women 
drank  beer  and  smoked  cigarettes  with  the  men.  He  was  sure 
that  Mildred  would  not  care  for  the  beer  and  the  cigarettes — 
indeed,  she  did  not  like  Mrs.  Grayling  at  all ;  but  he  understood 
exactly  how  meeting  artists  and  musicians  and  actors  and 
actresses  and  literary  people  would  amuse  her  much  more  than 
going  to  the  elaborate  "  social  functions  " — that  was  what  they 
were  called  in  the  society  papers — of  her  own  set.  Neverthe- 
less, she  ought  to  remember  what  her  position  was  and  be  chary 
of  unwise  intimacies.  As  for  Baretta — what  was  this  rot  about 
his  being  Baron  Smolzow  ?  It  was  probably  some  absurd  story 
devised  by  the  Mail — newspapers  nowadays  were  always  up  to 
that  sort  of  thing.  The  story  seemed  more  incredible  to  Philip 
because  Baretta  had  never  said  much  of  anything  to  him  con- 
cerning his  reputed  ancestry.  This  may  have  been  because  the 

142 


occasion  had  never  arisen,  or  it  may  have  been  because  Baretta 
could  not  at  the  time  see  any  especial  advantage  in  it.  The 
young  man  was,  as  we  have  seen,  anxious  to  avoid  the  reproach 
of  making  his  way  by  false  pretences,  and  when  he  allowed  the 
Lawrences  to  draw  false  deductions  it  was  rather  from  anxiety 
to  meet  the  standards  by  which  they  judged  people  than  from 
a  wilful  determination  to  deceive  them.  Philip's  good -will 
soon  came  to  have  little  importance  to  him,  although  he  had 
been  flattered  by  his  notice  at  first.  But  when  a  man  has  begun 
to  get  on,  why  should  he  waste  any  time  upon  those  who  can  no 
longer  help  him? 

So  Francis  Baretta  was  Baron  Smolzow  !  The  idea  in  all  its 
incongruity  kept  forcing  itself  into  Philip's  mind,  while  he  half 
listened  to  the  desultory  talk  of  his  companions,  gazing  seaward 
all  the  time,  and  bracing  himself  firmly  as  he  stood  by  the  wheel 
and  held  the  staggering  yacht  to  her  course.  Philip  smiled 
rather  bitterly  as  he  thought  how  much  a  title  would  mean  to 
the  young  man.  All  sorts  of  doors  would  be  open  to  him  now 
that  had  hitherto  been  tightly  closed  against  him.  It  could  not  be 
a  mere  adventurer's  trick  to  gain  recognition ;  he  might  dislike 
Baretta,  but  he  would  not  accuse  him  of  that.  If  the  story  in 
the  Mail  were  not  an  idle  romance,  it  must  have  some  substan- 
tial basis — there  must  be  proofs  of  its  truth.  Well,  it  was  a 
strange  revolution  of  Fortune's  wheel.  For  one  thing,  it  would 
probably  dispel  the  young  man's  dreams  of  a  coming  order  of 
social  equality ;  the  concrete  is  so  much  more  convincing  than 
the  abstract.  Philip  found  himself  vaguely  wondering  what 
Baretta  would  do,  what  form  his  elevation  would  take.  It  was 
curious  how  the  subject  interested  him.  Baron  Smolzow !  Per- 
haps it  was  an  empty  title,  and  brought  nothing  more  substan- 
tial with  it  than  a  little  temporary  glory.  A  baron  who  had  to 
work  for  his  living,  and  who  occupied  a  dingy  room  in  a  squalid 
street  with  a  drunken  Irishman  for  a  landlord,  was  worse  off 
than  if  he  were  no  baron  at  all.  Philip  had  never  been  in  Arra- 
gon  Street,  but  after  his  conversation  with  Dolan  at  the  Social- 
ist Club  he  could  imagine  precisely  how  depressing  Baretta's 
surroundings  must  be.  Poor  devil !  The  ungenerous  feeling 
of  envy  gave  way  to  one  of  compassion.  But  still  the  re- 

143 


membrance  of  Baretta's  allusions  to  Mildred  Lawrence  vexed 
him. 

"  We  had  better  run  straight  out  and  not  try  to  make  the  Shoals 
before  morning — what  do  you  say,  Yates?"  Linley's  voice  in- 
terrupted his  reflections,  and  he  turned  with  a  sigh  to  answer 
him. 

"  Oh  yes — just  as  you  like,"  he  said.  "  It  will  be  pretty  rough 
to-night;  perhaps  we  had  better  put  back  into  Marblehead." 

"Pooh!  who  minds  a  little  blow  like  this?  I  think  we'd 
better  run  down  the  flying-jib,  though,  and  take  another  reef  in 
the  main-sail.  And,  I  say,  I'm  getting  hungry.  Isn't  it  about 
dinner-time  ?" 

The  cosey  little  cabin  presented  a  very  cheerful  aspect  when 
presently  they  were  all  three  sitting  about  the  table,  Peter,  the 
mate  (this  was  what  they  called  him  when  he  was  on  deck), 
having  taken  the  helm.  Philip  quite  regained  his  good  spirits 
before  the  meal  was  over.  It  was  not  in  his  nature  to  be  mo- 
rose, however  great  his  private  griefs.  And,  besides,  he  was 
really  beginning  to  accept  Mildred's  decree  of  perpetual  banish- 
ment with  something  like  resignation.  The  beautiful  past  was 
over  forever ;  he  would  make  the  most  of  the  present.  If  he 
must  feel  his  grief  as  a  man  he  could  also  endure  it  like  one. 

Then,  after  a  wild,  tumultuous  night  came  a  fair,  shining 
morning  with  a  steady  breeze  from  the  south-west,  before  which 
the  Princess  of  Thule  sped  buoyantly  on  her  course,  plung- 
ing and  dipping  with  the  slowly  subsiding  swell  of  huge  green 
waves  that  the  gale  had  created.  Surely  this  was  not  a  time 
for  vain  regrets !  They  could  now  see  the  tall  shaft  of  White 
Island  Light  on  the  clear  horizon,  and  all  about  them  were  the 
sails  of  the  fishing  fleet  making  for  Gloucester.  A  mile  or  two 
off  the  starboard  bow  a  steam-yacht  was  steadily  pushing  its 
way  eastward.  It  was  a  day  to  make  one  grateful  for  the  gift 
of  mere  existence.  And  how  could  any  one  enjoy  it  more  than 
Philip  was  doing?  He  even  joined  with  young  Harding  in 
chaffing  Linley  about  some  imaginary  Dulcinea,  and  declared 
that  he  knew  very  well  it  was  not  anxiety  to  see  his  sister  which 
had  brought  that  young  man  to  the  Shoals.  "  We  shall  have  to 
stay  at  least  a  week  on  your  account,  George,"  he  said. 

144 


"  More  likely  on  Lawry's,"  said  Linley,  indifferently.  "  Didn't 
you  hear  him  saying  that  he  thought  Daisy  Tredvvell  was  a  jolly 
sort  of  girl  ?" 

"  Oh,  there's  nothing  sentimental  in  the  wind  between  us," 
declared  Lawrence.  "  But  she  is  jolly,  just  the  same.  I  like  a 
girl  who  has  some  sense  and  doesn't  expect  too  much." 

"  Lawry  has  a  way  of  disappointing  people  who  expect  much 
from  him,  you  see,"  said  Linley,  cynically.  "  He  disappointed 
Georgiana — but  she  has  learned  to  look  for  that  from  my 
friends.  I  say,  Yates,  what  humbug  it  is  for  a  girl  to  go  in 
for  the  higher  education  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

The  Princess  of  Thule  now  got  into  smoother  water  under 
the  low -lying  rocks  of  Appledore,  but  for  a  time  it  seemed 
doubtful  if  they  would  be  able  to  make  a  lauding  at  the  pier. 
They  could  see  that  an  interested  group  of  spectators,  mostly 
women,  had  gathered  there.  Presently  they  could  make  out 
one  or  two  whom  they  knew — Daisy  Tredwell  among  them. 
One  could  always  recognize  Daisy  quickly ;  perhaps  it  was  be- 
cause she  had  such  brilliant  golden  hair.  Lawrence  Harding, 
who  was  swinging  his  legs  over  the  bowsprit,  took  off  his  cap 
and  waved  it,  and  Daisy  fluttered  her  handkerchief.  Then 
Philip  looked  again,  and  his  heart  gave  a  great  leap.  Was  not 
that  Mildred  herself?  Certainly  he  had  seen  a  figure  that  re- 
minded him  of  her  standing  by  Miss  Tredwell's  side.  No,  no 
— what  folly  to  think  of  it !  Why  should  she  be  here  ?  There 
was  a  movement  among  the  people  on  the  pier,  and  even  Daisy 
herself  seemed  to  disappear  for  a  moment.  And  as  the  yacht 
came  closer  and  closer  the  figure  that  had  reminded  Philip  of 
Mildred  was  no  more  to  be  seen. 

But  this  was  a  strange  thing  which  Daisy  did  when  at  last  the 
young  men  had  landed  at  Appledore.  For  to  Linley  and  Har- 
ding she  merely  nodded  and  said,  "Oh,  we  have  been  expecting 
you,"  with  her  mischievous  little  laugh.  But  there  was  a  hint  of 
something  else  than  laughter  in  her  bright  blue  eyes  as  she 
turned  to  Philip  and  gave  him  her  hand.  "  I  am  so  very  glad 
you  came  with  them,"  Daisy  said. 

K  145 


"  OH,  I  don't  want  you  to  interrupt  me ;  I  want  to  talk  to  Mr. 
Yates." 

"  But,  I  say,  (Miss  Tredwell !"  remonstrated  young  Harding. 
"  i)o  you  intend  to  cut  a  fellow  altogether  ?" 

"  Yes — if  he  persists  in  being  a  nuisance,"  said  Daisy,  with  a 
laugh. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  declared  the  young  man,  frowning. 

"  Of  course  not ;  how  could  one  expect  that  you  would  ?" 

"  Oh,  very  well,  Miss  Tredwell,  if  my  room  is  better  than  my 
company,  as  I  plainly  see — " 

"  Don't  be  so  silly !"  interrupted  Daisy,  laughing  again. 
"  You  will  understand — some  day."  And  she  went  over  to  the 
corner  of  the  piazza  where  Yates  was  sitting  alone,  leaving 
Harding  utterly  mystified.  Even  the  radiant  glance,  half 
serious,  half  malicious,  which  she  cast  at  him  over  her  shoulder 
did  not  in  the  least  enlighten  him.  Yates !  Why  the  deuce 
should  she  make  a  dead  set  at  Yates  ?  It  was  absurd — it  was 
unmaidenly.  So  Harding  walked  away  in  a  very  sulky  mood. 

But  Miss  Tredwell  was  serious  enough  when  she  came  up  to 
speak  to  Philip.  Indeed,  she  blushed  a  little  as  he  lifted  his 
cap  and  rose  to  greet  her,  and  for  a  moment  she  stood  looking 
at  him  rather  stupidly.  "  I — I  wanted  so  much  to  see  you," 
was  what  she  said  at  last.  And  then  she  blushed  again  more 
deeply. 

Philip  had  been  conscious  of  the  warmth  of  her  greeting 
on  the  pier,  earlier  in  the  day.  "  I  am  so  very  glad  you  came 
with  them,"  she  had  said.  This  was  flattering,  no  doubt,  but 

146 


why  should  Miss  Trcdwell  care  so  much  more  for  his  coming 
than  for  the  coming  of  the  others  ?  It  might  have  been  Lawry, 
or  even  George  Linley,  that  she  wished  especially  to  see  ;  that 
would  have  been  intelligible  enough,  although  even  then  one 
would  hardly  have  expected  her  to  admit  it  so  frankly.  But 
why  him  ?  That  was  what  Philip  could  not  make  out.  She  had 
not  explained  her  meaning  at  the  moment,  and  he  soon  forgot  to 
puzzle  over  it.  Now  again  she  emphasized  her  gladness  at  seeing 
him  ;  which  was  something  he  did  not  even  try  to  make  out  at  all. 
Of  course,  Daisy  and  he  had  always  been  good  friends,  although 
perhaps  her  intimate  association  in  his  mind  with  Mildred  had 
made  him  avoid  rather  than  seek  her  society  of  late. 

"  Ah,  it  is  worth  while  to  be  told  that,"  said  Philip,  looking 
at  Daisy  and  wondering  why  she  blushed. 

"  You  mustn't  flatter  yourself  too  much — don't  let  it  make 
you  conceited."  Her  embarrassment,  whatever  was  the  cause  of 
it,  had  vanished,  and  she  was  once  more  her  frank,  audacious 
self.  "  One  welcomes  almost  any  prospect  of  diversion,  you 
know,  at  a  place  like  this." 

"  Ah,  now  you  are  taking  down  my  conceit  with  a  ven- 
geance !" 

"  Perhaps  you're  not  so  very  conceited,  after  all,"  said  Daisy. 
"  At  all  events,  I'm  going  to  hope  you're  not,  because  I  came  to 
ask  you  if  you  didn't  want  to  explore  the  island  with  me  before 
dinner  ?" 

"  How  can  you  doubt  but  that  I  should  be  most  happy  ?" 

"  Does  it  shock  you  that  I  should  ask,  Mr.  Yates  ?  Well,  you 
know,  I  have  a  reason." 

"  A  woman's  reason  ?"  he  asked,  smiling. 

"What  is  a  woman's  reason?  something  absurd?  I  shall 
leave  you  to  find  it  out,  whatever  it  is." 

"  That  will  at  least  give  me  something  to  do.  Shall  we  start 
on  our  trip  at  once  ?" 

"  Oh,  it  won't  be  a  long  one."  They  walked  down  the  long 
piazza  together,  but  just  as  they  were  about  to  go  up  the  hill 
behind  the  hotel  Daisy  turned  to  him  rather  doubtfully.  "  Are 
you  sure  you  have  nothing  else  that  you  want  to  do  ?"  she 
asked. 

147 


"  Quite  sure.  How  could  there  be  anything  that  I  wanted  to 
do  more  ?" 

"  I  didn't  ask  for  compliments." 

"  Well,  you  must  be  used  to  receiving  them  without  the  ask- 
ing." 

"  Oh,  you  are  incorrigible !"  Daisy  cried.  "  You  haven't 
changed  a  bit." 

"  Haven't  I  ?"  Philip  smiled  rather  bitterly  as  he  spoke, 
knowing  how  much  the  world  had  changed  for  him,  although  a 
frivolous  girl  could  see  nothing  of  it.  The  reflection  was  unjust 
to  Daisy,  but  man's  conceptions  of  woman  from  the  social  point 
of  view  usually  are  unjust.  There  are  complexities  in  her  nature 
which  it  is  not  for  him  to  fathom.  Philip  despised  the  fashion 
of  wearing  one's  heart  upon  one's  sleeve,  but  yet  he  was  some- 
what provoked  with  Daisy  for  not  understanding  just  a  little  how 
much  he  had  suffered.  She  was  Mildred's  intimate  friend,  to 
be  sure,  but  nevertheless  she  might  have  offered  him  a  degree 
of  tacit  sympathy,  especially  since  she  had  shown  so  plainly 
that  she  wished  still  to  be  his  friend  as  well. 

"  No — not  the  least,"  said  Daisy.  They  had  climbed  the  low 
ascent,  and  now  were  surveying  from  its  summit  the  broad  sur- 
face of  the  sea,  out  of  which  these  grim  and  desolate  ledges 
arose,  with  ragged  bases  of  rock  which  gave  a  touch  of  stern- 
ness even  to  the  rich  greensward  and  the  brilliant  flower-gardens 
in  the  heart  of  the  island. 

"  It  must  be  a  cheerful  place  in  winter,"  observed  Philip. 

"  It's  dull  enough  at  all  times.  How  long  will  you  stay  with 
us?" 

"  That's  as  the  others  say.  You  must  try  your  powers  of 
persuasion  upon  them." 

(f  I  ?     Why  should  I  care  whether  they  stay  or  go  ?" 

"  I  think  we  are  to  start  out  again  this  evening." 

"  This  evening  ?  Oh  !"  cried  Daisy.  Then  she  added,  with 
a  fine  assumption  of.dignity,  "  How  could  one  really  expect  you 
to  stay  in  such  a  stupid  place  ?" 

"  As  I  am  forbidden  to  pay  compliments,  I  really  cannot  an- 
swer that  question." 

But  Daisy  had  turned  to  gaze  seaward,  and  Philip  was  not 

148 


sure  that  she  heard  this  last  remark.  lie  thought  for  a  moment 
that  her  eyes  had  tilled  suddenly,  as  if  with  tears.  But  this  was 
a  supposition  so  absurd  that  he  dismissed  it  instantly.  Never- 
theless, there  was  something  about  her  whole  manner  that  he 
could  not  in  the  least  understand. 

"  I  think  it's  rather  silly  to  walk  about  like  this,  after  all — 
don't  you  ?"  she  said,  presently.  And  as  she  faced  him  he  saw 
very  clearly  that  she  was  smiling.  "  There's  the  little  steamer 
coming  that  makes  the  trip  around  the  islands.  Wouldn't  you 
like  to  go  ?  Have  you  ever  been  on  Star  Island  ?  The  rocks 
there  are  really  worth  seeing." 

"  You  have  only  to  command,  Miss  Tredwell." 

"  Have  I?  I  wish  I  could  believe  that."  This  time  her  lips 
trembled  a  little,  but  not  with  a  smile.  Philip  saw,  too,  that  her 
face  was  very  pale. 

"  But  are  you  not  too  tired  to  go  ?  I  don't  want  you  to  sacri- 
fice yourself  for  me,"  said  he. 

"  Is  that  a  way  of  saying  that  you  don't  care  to  go  yourself  ? 
Oh,  of  course  you  don't — how  rude  I  have  been  !  I  don't  know 
what's  the  matter  with  me  this  afternoon." 

"  How  can  I  convince  you  that  your  suspicions  are  unjust, 
Daisy  ?"  he  asked.  "  I  used  to  call  you  that,  you  know — forgive 
me  for  letting  the  name  slip  out  in  the  old  familiar  way." 

Daisy  laughed,  this  time  with  genuine  merriment.  "  I  think 
we're  a  pair  of  fools,  Philip.  Why  shouldn't  we  be  just  as  good 
friends  as  we  ever  were  ?  I'm  going  around  the.  islands,  and — 
and  you  can  come  if  you  like." 

And  indeed  was  it  not  much  like  old  times  to  be  sitting  here 
in  this  tiny  craft  by  Daisy's  side?  Philip  had  always  liked 
Daisy  immensely,  although  she  was  not  in  the  least  the  kind  of 
girl  he  would  want  to  marry.  If  she  had  been,  he  might  not 
have  liked  her  half  so  well.  She  was  not  remarkable  in  any  way 
— not  for  beauty,  nor  for  wit,  nor  for  anything  at  all.  People 
spoke  of  her  as  a  rather  pretty  girl  with  red  hair,  who  attracted 
the  young  men  by  her  good  spirits.  As  Lawrence  Harding  had 
said,  she  was  "  a  jolly  sort,"  which  phrase  was  perhaps  more  ex- 
pressive than  any  other  would  have  been.  Daisy's  good  spirits 
seemed  fully  to  have  returned  to  her  now,  as  she  sat  in  the  stern 

149 


of  this  ridiculous  little  steamer  with  Philip.  It  was  a  wonder- 
ful afternoon — never  was  the  sun  brighter  or  the  water  bluer 
— and  this  radiant  little  figure  seemed  to  Philip  somehow  to  be 
a  part  of  it. 

"  Would  you  really  like  to  land  and  walk  over  to  the  rocks  ?" 
asked  Daisy,  as  the  boat  ran  up  alongside  the  pier  at  Star  Island. 
"  They're  quite  worth  seeing,  if  one  has  never  been.  And,  be- 
sides— "  then  she  stopped  abruptly. 

"  Besides  what  ?"  asked  Philip.  "  Of  course  I  should  like  to 
see  the  rocks.  I  am  enjoying  this  trip  more  than  anything  else. 
But  what  did  you  mean  by  '  besides  ?'  " 

"  Oh,  nothing — really  nothing,"  replied  Daisy,  laughing,  and 
yet  with  a  conscious  air  which  did  not  escape  his  notice.  "  Let 
us  turn  to  the  right  and  avoid  that  staring  crowd  at  the  hotel. 
Don't  you  hate  a  staring  crowd  ?" 

"  I  am  never  stared  at — when  I  am  alone." 

"  Really  ?  Are  you  so  sure  of  that  ?  If  you  would  come  to 
Mrs.  Chilton's  some  day  I  would  promise  you  plenty  of  atten- 
tion." 

"  Ah,  but  I  am  not  a  celebrity,  as  every  one  else  who  goes  there 
is." 

"  Well,  wouldn't  that  be  a  good  reason  for  staring  at  you  ? 
That's  why  I  get  any  notice.  Do  come — I  mean  it  in  earnest. 
You  are  an  author,  you  know." 

"  Please  don't  be  sarcastic,  Daisy.  Mrs.  Chilton  will  have 
higher  game  to  bring  down  next  winter.  Why,  I  think  that 
even  Mrs.  Cadwallader,  who  is  rather  particular,  will  want  a  real 
baron.  I  think  I  will  earn  her  lasting  gratitude  by  introducing 
him." 

"  A  real  baron  ?     Whom  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Haven't  you  met  him"?  He's  been  at  Mrs.  Chilton's.  Oh, 
you  must  have  met  Baretta." 

"  Mr.  Baretta  !"  cried  Daisy.  "  That  person  !  Oh,  you  surely 
don't  believe  that  foolish  story,  too." 

"  I,  too  !  Why,  have  you  seen  it  in  the  papers  already  ?" 
asked  Philip.  He  regretted  now  his  introduction  of  Baretta's 
name,  partly  because  he  thought  that  it  might  be  associated  with 
Mildred's  in  Miss  Tredvvell's  mind  no  less  than  in  his  own.  And 

150 


although  he  had  been  blaming  her  for  not  sympathizing  with  him, 
he  felt  just  now  as  if  sympathy,  however  delicately  expressed, 
were  what  he  could  not  bear. 

"  The  papers  ?  I  have  seen  nothing  in  the  papers.  But  that 
was  what  they  said  about  him  at  the  first.  I  wouldn't  believe 
them — I  don't  now.  But  do  you  know  him  ?  Oh,  perhaps  he 
is  a  friend  of  yours." 

"  No,  he  is  no  friend  of  mine.  I  have  met  him — only  as  Fran- 
cis Baretta,  not  as  Baron  Smolzow." 

"  Baron  Smolzow  !  How  ridiculous  !  So  he  actually  has  the 
presumption  at  last  to  invent  a  title  for  himself." 

"  Oh,  I  can't  say  that  he  invented  it.  But,  then,  what  does 
it  matter  to  us  ?  A  fellow  must  get  on  in  one  way  or  another." 

"  Baron  Smolzow  !"  said  Daisy  again,  with  a  disdainful  expres- 
sion. "  Oh,  I  have  no  patience  with  her !"  Then  she  added, 
rather  breathlessly,  and  with  a  quick  look  at  her  companion, 
"  With  Mrs.  Chilton,  I  mean." 

"  Yes,"  was  all  Philip  said.  Yet  he  had  grown  a  trifle  pale, 
and  his  eyes  had  an  absent  expression  as  they  swept  the  far  ho- 
rizon. He  was  not  deceived  by  Daisy's  explanation.  He  knew 
only  too  well  whom  she  had  in  mind,  and  the  knowledge  cost 
him  an  almost  intolerable  pang  of  anguish.  It  was  true,  then, 
that  she — the  woman  he  had  loved,  and  for  whom  he  was  not 
good  enough — was  really  interested  in  that  adventurer,  really 
cared  for  a  fellow  who  was  not  even  a  gentleman !  He  thought 
he  had  steeled  himself  to  his  separation  from  her,  but  this  sus- 
picion seemed  to  make  it  more  intolerable  than  ever. 

"  But  Mr.  Baretta — I  won't  admit  that  he  is  a  baron  at  all — 
is  hardly  worth  talking  about,  is  he  ?  Can't  you  tell  me  some- 
thing about  yourself  instead  ?  I  am  interested  in  what  you  do, 
and  it  is  so  long  since  I  have  had  a  talk  with  you." 

"  I  thank  you  for  the  interest ;  but  I  am  doing  nothing.  I 
never  did  much,  you  know ;  but  even  that  little  seems  to  be  im- 
possible to  me." 

Daisy  stole  a  pitying  glance  at  him  as  he  said  this.  Yes, 
Mildred  had  treated  him  very  badly — much  worse  than  he  de- 
served, she  was  sure,  whatever  he  had  done.  It  will  be  remem- 
bered that  she  had  not  hesitated  to  tell  Mildred  so ;  which,  per- 

151 


haps,  was  not  the  wisest  way  to  convince  her,  after  all,  since 
there  is  nothing  like  opposition  to  confirm  one  in  one's  opinions. 
But  now  Daisy  only  said,  "  I  am  sure  there  are  many  people, 
Philip,  who  believe  in  you." 

Yates  was  immensely  touched  by  this  confession  of  faith. 
Only  a  moment  ago  he  had  felt  that  he  could  not  endure  to 
let  even  her  see  how  painful  his  wound  still  was,  and  yet  now 
he  was  conscious  of  an  almost  irresistible  impulse  to  give  her 
the  confidence  which  he  felt  sure  she  would  respect.  But  all 
he  could  say  was,  "  Thank  you,"  which  seemed  to  him  a  stupid 
acknowledgment  of  her  kindness. 

They  had  now  reached  the  jagged  ledges  of  rock  which  form 
the  western  side  of  the  island,  and  for  a  time  nothing  more  was 
said  by  either  as  they  picked  their  way  cautiously  from  one 
treacherous  foothold  to  another.  As  they  descended  behind 
the  frowning  crest  of  one  irregular  summit  they  found  them- 
selves apparently  alone  in  this  wild  and  desolate  world  of  gray 
crags  beaten  furiously  by  the  upleaping  waves  at  their  base. 
On  both  sides  sheer  walls  arose  and  hemmed  them  in,  and  below 
the  cliff  fell  away  abruptly  in  broken  masses.  And  before 
them,  as  far  as  eye  could  reach,  stretched  the  limitless  plain  of 
the  sea.  Daisy  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  It  is  a  favourite  spot  of  ours — I  mean  of  mine,"  she  said. 
"  There  is  nothing  so  lovely  on  Appledore.  But  I — I — "  Here 
suddenly  she  hesitated,  and  Philip,  looking  at  her,  saw  that  she 
was  regarding  something  beyond  them  in  a  frightened  way. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  he  began.  Then  he  turned  and  confronted 
Mildred  Lawrence.  She  was  very  pale,  and  she  trembled  visibly, 
but  after  one  quick  glance  she  averted  her  face. 

"  Oh,  Mildred  !"  cried  Daisy.  "  Why,  how  you  frightened  us 
— it  was  as  if  you  had  risen  right  out  of  the  sea.  Why,  we 
didn't  know  there  was  a  soul  anywhere  about.  Where  were 
you — behind  that  rock  ?  Is  that  your  book  you  have  dropped  ?" 

Philip  stooped  to  pick  up  the  volume ;  then  he  handed  it  to 
Mildred  mechanically,  without  a  word.  "  Thank  you,"  she  said. 
And  she  turned  to  go. 

"  Oh,  Mildred  !"  cried  Daisy,  desperately. 

The  girl  looked  at  her  angrily.  She  knew  now  what  her 

152 


friend  had  done,  why  she  had  brought  Philip  here.  But  she 
could  not  reproach  her  then.  "  I  think  it  must  be  almost 
dinner-time,"  she  said,  coldly,  and  sprang  up  the  tortuous  path 
towards  the  summit  of  the  cliff,  leaving  the  other  two  staring 
blankly  at  each  other. 

Philip,  too,  had  begun  to  realize  the  full  significance  of  this 
meeting.  Daisy's  exclamation  had  enlightened  him,  although 
not  so  quickly  as  it  had  enlightened  Mildred.  But  now  he  re- 
called those  chance  phrases  of  hers  which  had  puzzled  him  at 
the  time,  and  he  began  to  understand  them.  His  first  emotion 
was  also  one  of  anger.  It  was  a  silly  trick — just  what  might 
be  expected  of  a  girl  like  Daisy  Tredwell. 

"  Did  you  know  she  was  here  ?"  he  asked,  sternly. 

"  Why,  Philip,  I— I  thought—" 

"  Did  you  know  she  was  here  ?" 

"  You're  just  as  mean  as  you  can  be — both  of  you  !"  Then 
she  sat  down,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  sobbed. 

All  men  hate  to  see  a  \voman  cry.  It  is  a  thoroughly  illogical 
argument,  but  it  inevitably  puts  them  in  the  wrong.  So  when 
Philip  spoke  again  it  was  in  a  gentler  tone.  "  I  beg  your  par- 
don," he  said ;  "  I  dare  say  you  don't  understand  what  you 
have  done." 

The  only  reply  to  this  was  further  sobs. 

"  I  can't  do  more  ihan  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Philip.  Then 
he,  too,  sat  down  and  looked  gloomily  out  over  the  tumbling, 
sparkling  waves.  Their  very  brightness  seemed  to  mock  him. 
It  was  like  going  back  to  the  grave  of  one  who  is  dead  to  come 
face  to  face  with  Mildred  Lawrence  in  that  way,  and  realize  with 
a  sharpness  only  possible  in  her  presence  how  impassable  was 
the  gulf  between  them.  It  was  her  figure,  then,  that  he  had 
seen  upon  the  pier  that  morning ;  his  eyes  had  not  deceived 
him.  What  accursed  fate  was  it  that  led  him  to  the  very  place 
which  of  all  others  he  would  have  avoided  if  he  had  known  ? 
And  of  course  she  would  blame  him  !  She  would  think  that  he 
had  come  with  Daisy  expecting  to  find  her,  and  perhaps  hoping 
that  some  vulgar  "  scene  "  would  set  everything  right.  What  a 
hideous  suspicion  for  her  to  cherish,  who  thought  so  badly  of 
him  even  as  it  was !  His  heart  was  hot  with  rage  against  the 

153 


intermeddler  who  had  placed  him  in  such  a  position.  And  the 
fellows  on  the  yacht — they,  too,  would  know  that  Mildred  was 
here,  and  they  would  talk  everything  over  behind  his  back. 
This  was  a  ridiculously  petty  annoyance  to  be  concerned  about 
at  such  a  time,  but  it  had  a  sting  for  him  perhaps  hardly  less 
sharp  at  the  moment  than  that  much  greater  grief.  Confound 
all  officious  women !  who  could  never  be  happy  unless  they 
were  trying  to  act  the  part  of  a  special  providence,  and  who 
never  learned  anything  from  failure. 

Presently  he  was  conscious  of  the  rustle  of  a  woman's  dress, 
and  he  looked  up  to  find  Daisy  standing  beside  him.  She  was 
no  longer  crying,  but  her  face  wore  a  penitent  expression  which 
melted  him  a  little  in  spite  of  himself.  "  I  am  so  sorry,"  she 
said. 

"  It  is  I  who  should  be  sorry ;  I  had  no  business  to  speak  to 
you  in  that  way."  He  rose  wearily,  but  turned  once  more  to 
look  at  those  mocking  waters.  Daisy,  with  a  womanly  instinct 
of  sympathy,  laid  her  hand  gently  on  his.  "  Oh,  Daisy,  if  you 
knew  how  hard  it  is  !"  cried  he,  with  a  despairing  groan.  At 
last  his  resolution  to  bear  his  hurt  in  silence  had  broken  down ; 
that  touch  had  somehow  unmanned  him. 

"  Philip,"  said  Daisy,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears  again, "  I 
meant  to  be  your  friend — I  meant  to  help  you.  I  did,  indeed !" 

The  young  man  made  no  reply,  but  he  held  her  hand  in  his 
a  moment. 

"  And — and  Philip  !     I  shall  help  you  yet !" 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  me,"  he  said  at  last,  gravely.  "  Shall 
we  go  now  ?" 

154 


CHAPTER  XVI 
THE  NOBLE  HOUSE  OF  SMOLZOW 

DITTOS  was  so  kind  to  Baretta  during  the  days  that  he  lay 
helpless  on  his  bed  that  the  young  man's  feeling  of  animosity 
was  greatly  softened.  Baretta  still  thought  that  Ditton  should 
have  taken  his  side  rather  than  Luck's,  but  he  now  did  him  the 
justice  to  admit  that  he  had  done  his  utmost  to  save  him  from 
the  violence  of  the  mob.  And  how  could  one  quarrel  with  a 
man  who  brought  one  books  and  papers,  and  delicacies  to  tempt 
the  appetite,  and  who  never  met  fretfulness  and  impatience  with 
harsh  words  ? 

"  You  mustn't  do  so  much  for  me,"  said  Baretta  on  one 
occasion. 

"  Well,  I  don't  have  an  invalid  on  my  hands  every  day,"  re- 
plied Ditton. 

"  But  you  have  no  reason  for  it  in  my  case,  Mr.  Ditton.  In- 
deed, I  thought  you  considered  me  an  enemy." 

"  You  seem  to  have  been  thinking  a  good  many  foolish  things, 
my  boy." 

"  Don't  you  see  why  I  should  suppose  that  ?"  asked  Baretta. 

"  It  wouldn't  have  been  the  part  of  a  friend  to  back  you  up 
in  that  foolish  attack  on  Luck,  or  to  approve  of  all  that  nonsense 
about  interesting  your  swells  in  our  cause." 

"  Why  do  you  call  them  my  swells  ?  They  don't  care  any- 
thing for  me,"  said  the  young  man,  bitterly. 

"  That's  what  I've  been  telling  you  all  along.  I'm  glad  you 
see  it  at  last." 

But  perhaps  Baretta  did  not  quite  see  it,  after  all.  He  had 
plenty  of  time  to  make  plans  for  his  future  mission  as  a  prophet 

155 


in  society,  warning  it  of  its  destruction,  and  these  plans  seemed 
golden  to  him.  One  thing  which  confirmed  him  in  his  resolu- 
tion was  the  impossibility  of  going  back  to  his  old  work.  Even 
if  he  could  make  up  his  mind  to  do  it,  his  usefulness  would 
be  destroyed  ;  and  he  felt  that  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind. 
He  had  no  longer  any  quarrel  with  Ditton.  How  could  he  have 
now  ?  But  even  Ditton  had  become  jealous  of  his  ability  to  get 
on  by  himself  ;  of  that  he  was  very  sure.  And  one  day  Maud 
brought  him  a  letter,  addressed  to  him  at  Arragon  Street,  which 
confirmed  him  in  his  resolution  to  follow  his  own  course. 

Maud  came  to  see  him  every  day,  usually  in  the  afternoon, 
because  her  mornings  and  evenings  were  occupied  at  the  small 
shop  where  she  sold  newspapers  and  lead-pencils,  and  candy, 
and  kept  the  accounts — that  shop  of  which  she  had  often  com- 
plained so  bitterly.  She  had  gone  back  to  her  home,  after  all, 
in  spite  of  her  passionate  declaration  that  she  had  left  it  forever. 
If  Baretta  had  only  asked  her  to  stay,  she  would  have  stayed 
in  spite  of  everything ;  but  he  did  not  love  her  as  she  loved  him. 
To  her  ill-regulated  mind,  educated  beyond  her  environment  but 
not  beyond  its  influences,  and  fed  upon  the  silly  fiction  which 
reflected  anything  but  life  as  poor  humanity  finds  it,  love  was 
an  emotion  that  did  not  consort  with  reason.  It  was  a  fine  ro- 
mantic fervour  to  which  nothing  was  impossible.  She  pictured 
to  herself  how  differently  events  would  have  come  about  if  the 
Duchess  had  gone  to  the  Captain  to  tell  him  that  she  had  aban- 
doned everything  for  his  sake.  Maud  could  have  played  the 
part  of  the  Duchess  if  her  lover  had  been  willing  to  play  that 
of  the  Captain.  When  she  found  that  he  was  not,  it  was  com- 
paratively easy  for  Ditton  to  persuade  her  to  go  back  to  Arragon 
Street.  Her  mother  was  sitting  up  for  her,  and  let  her  in  with 
trembling  hands,  beseeching  her  to  go  up-stairs  softly,  lest  her 
father  should  know  where  she  had  been.  But  she  would  not 
promise  not  to  see  Baretta  again.  She  packed  his  things  the 
next  day,  looking  among  his  books  for  the  volume  which  had 
the  name  of  Mildred  Lawrence  written  on  the  fly -leaf;  this, 
however,  she  did  not  find,  and  she  wondered  whether  he  had 
returned  it  to  the  owner,  or  carried  it  with  him  as  something  too 
precious  to  part  with.  "  She  ain't  nursing  him  now  he's  sick," 

156 


said  Maud  to  herself,  half  angry,  half  exultant.  "  I  guess  she 
don't  care  for  him  enough  for  that."  After  the  young  man's 
belongings  had  been  carried  away — Peter  Dolan  had  made  two 
or  three  ineffectual  threats  of  pitching  them  into  the  street — 
she  cried  over  a  half-worn  necktie  which  she  had  found  upon 
his  bureau,  and  had  taken  away  to  lock  up  among  her  scanty 
hoard  of  treasures.  She  had  nothing  else  to  remind  her  of  him, 
not  even  a  lock  of  his  hair.  The  only  present  he  had  given  her 
was  a  ring  with  a  tiny  pearl,  and  this  somehow  did  not  seem  to 
be  a  tangible  memorial  of  his  presence.  But  over  that  dingy 
bit  of  silk  she  shed  many  tears ;  which  was  because  she  had  an 
ill-regulated  mind. 

The  letter  which  Maud  brought  to  Baretta  was  from  Binney, 
the  editor  of  the  Mail.  In  it  that  arbiter  of  so  many  destinies 
expressed  satisfaction  with  the  young  man's  previous  contribu- 
tions, and  asked  if  he  could  not  send  something  in  a  slightly 
different  vein.  Sketches  of  some  of  the  leaders  in  the  Socialistic 
movement  would  interest  the  public.  These  must  be  bright  and 
crisp,  giving  the  salient  characteristics  of  the  men  and  the  pict- 
uresque points  in  their  careers.  Mr.  Binney  further  suggested 
that  something  autobiographical  would  make  good  "  copy,"  and 
offered  to  spare  his  correspondent's  modesty  by  putting  this  in 
the  form  of  an  "  interview,"  if  the  material  were  furnished  to 
one  of  the  Mail's  young  men. 

"  See  that,"  Baretta  said,  handing  the  letter  to  Maud  when  he 
had  read  it.  "  Doesn't  that  look  as  if  I  would  get  on  ?" 

"  How  badly  he  writes,  Frank,"  was  the  girl's  comment.  "  You 
tell  me  what  it's  about.  Do  you  think  it's  such  a  big  thing  just 
to  be  on  a  paper  ?"  she  added,  when  the  nature  of  Binney's  offer 
had  been  explained  to  her. 

"It's  a  beginning  —  can't  you  see  how  much  it  means 
to  me  ?"  asked  Baretta,  fretfully.  "  Well,  no ;  I  suppose  you 
can't." 

"  Yes,  I'm  stupid,  Frank — I  ain't  like  her.  Why  don't  you 
go  and  marry  her,  if  you're  getting  to  be  such  a  great  man  ?" 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  like  a  fool."  He  limped  across 
the  room — he  was  no  longer  obliged  to  stay  in  bed,  although  he 
was  still  very  lame — and  sat  down  at  a  table  by  the  window. 

157 


"  It's  enough  of  a  chance  for  me  to  jump  at,  anyway,"  he  said, 
as  he  began  to  write  his  reply. 

Maud's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  but  she  accepted  the  rebuke  in 
silence.  Of  late  she  had  become  almost  humbly  anxious  to 
please  him. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude  to  you,"  said  Baretta,  looking  up 
presently.  "  Only  I  want  you  to  have  faith  in  me — to  believe 
that  I  am  going  to  make  my  way  in  the  world."  lie  sealed  the 
letter  and  wrote  the  address.  "  And  take  you  with  me,  Maud  ; 
don't  forget  that." 

"  I  ain't  so  likely  to  forget  it  as  you  are,"  said  the  girl.  There 
was  no  bitterness  in  her  tone  ;  it  was  rather  as  if  she  had  re- 
signed herself  to  the  inevitable. 

Perhaps  some  latent  consciousness  that  she  had  spoken  the 
truth  made  Baretta  eager  to  protest.  But  if  he  convinced  him- 
self he  did  not  convince  her.  The  mournful  presentiment  that 
this  episode  in  her  career  must  come  to  an  end  sooner  or  later 
continued  to  oppress  her.  Unfortunately  it  increased  rather 
than  lessened  the  strength  of  her  devotion.  Some  women  re- 
sent the  treachery  of  their  lovers  ;  others  it  only  makes  more 
fond.  Maud  felt  that  to  stop  caring  for  Baretta  was  something 
which  she  could  not  do  under  any  circumstances.  She  even 
resented  his  getting  well  because  it  separated  him  from  her,  and 
put  an  end  to  those  afternoons  which  she  had  found  so  sadly 
sweet.  Baretta,  as  soon  as  he  was  able,  had  found  a  new  room 
for  himself,  in  a  better  neighbourhood  than  Arragon  Street. 
Since  to  go  back  there  was  impossible,  he  conceived  a  singular 
distaste  for  living  longer  in  the  slums.  He  took  a  small  fur- 
nished chamber  in  a  house  in  one  of  the  South  End  squares. 
It  would  cost  him  three  dollars  a  week,  which  was  a  good  deal 
for  one  whose  income  was  nothing,  and  who  depended  upon 
chance  crumbs  from  the  Mail's  table.  But  his  confidence  that 
he  would  get  on  stimulated  him  to  take  the  risk  of  being  able 
to  pay  it.  Maud  went  with  him  to  see  the  place  once,  and  it 
struck  her  as  being  actually  luxurious.  There  were  lace  curtains 
at  the  window,  and  a  black -walnut  set,  and  the  wash-stand 
boasted  of  a  marble  top.  It  was  so  much  better  than  Arragon 
Street  that  how  could  he  care  any  longer  for  a  girl  who  lived 

168 


there  ?  When  she  thought  of  him  as  in  Manchester  Square  he 
seemed  to  be  farther  away  from  her  than  ever. 

Ditton  went  with  Baretta  on  the  day  that  he  moved  his  mod- 
est possessions  into  his  new  quarters — these  were  little  more 
than  a  valise  full  of  clothing,  and  a  few  books,  and  the  table  at 
which  he  did  his  writing — but  he  made  no  remark  concerning 
the  changed  nature  of  the  surroundings.  Indeed,  it  is  quite 
likely  that  he  never  noticed  it.  Any  four  walls  that  provided  a 
shelter  were  all  the  same  to  the  preacher,  who,  as  we  have  seen, 
often  found  himself  with  no  shelter  at  all.  But  Ditton  irritated 
Baretta  in  another  way,  and  that  was  by  refusing  to  take  a 
penny  from  him  in  payment  of  the  expense  to  which  a  visitor 
had  put  him. 

"It's  absurd,  Mr.  Ditton  —  I  can't  allow  it,"  said  Baretta. 
"  Why,  I've  been  with  you  for  over  a  week,  and  I  haven't  even 
paid  for  my  meals  or  anything." 

"  Pooh,  pooh  !  I  paid  my  bill  this  morning  and  gave  up  the 
room,  and  what  difference  does  it  make  ?" 

"  But  look  here — I  have  twenty  dollars — don't  you  remember 
finding  it  that  night  ? — and  it's  absurd  for  you  to  act  in  this 
way.  I've  no  doubt  you  haven't  left  yourself  a  cent." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  have,"  said  Ditton,  thrusting  his  hand  into  his 
pocket  and  producing  two  or  three  silver  coins  and  some  pen- 
nies. "  Look  here,  there's  seventy -five — eighty -five — why,  I  have 
ninety-six  cents.  What  can  a  man  want  more  ?" 

"  I  tell  you  I  won't  have  it !"  cried  Baretta,  impatiently.  "  I 
insist  on  paying." 

"  I  don't  know  how  you  can  insist,  my  boy,  if  I  won't  take 
it," 

"  But  you  have  no  right  to  put  me  under  such  an  obligation 
to  you." 

"What  good  is  money  to  me?"  argued  Ditton.  "I've  got 
enough  for  my  dinner,  and  if  I  can't  do  anything  else  I'll  come 
back  here  and  sleep  with  you.  Keep  your  twenty  dollars,  Ba- 
retta. This  newspaper  work  of  yours  won't  last,  and  you'll  be 
glad  to  have  it  to  fall  back  upon." 

"  I'll  go  halves  with  you — I  insist  upon  that." 

"  No,  no — when  some  poor  devil  needs  a  little  and  I  haven't 

159 


any  for  him,  I'll  call  on  you,  and  if  you  can  spare  a  dollar  or  two 
then,  well  and  good.  I  won't  take  it  now  ;  I  might  lose  it." 

"  Yes,  or  give  it  away  to  the  first  beggar  you  come  across. 
But  I  tell  you  it's  yours,  and  I  won't  take  it  back.  There  it  is 
on  the  table,  and  if  you  don't  take  it  with  you  I'll  lock  it  up  and 
keep  it  until  you  come  again." 

After  Ditton  had  gone  this  incident  struck  Baretta  as  so  char- 
acteristic of  the  man  that  he  incorporated  it  with  that  sketch  of 
him  which  he  was  writing  for  the  Mail.  He  was  not  at  all  sure 
that  his  former  master — he  had  already  detached  himself  in  his 
own  consciousness  from  his  discipleship — would  be  pleased  with 
the  notoriety  thus  thrust  upon  him.  But,  then,  why  should  he 
object  ?  It  was  to  be  a  friendly  sketch,  written  altogether  in 
sympathy  with  the  cause.  Baretta  would  not  admit  that  because 
he  had  taken  up  his  own  line  the  great  principles  in  which  Dit- 
ton had  educated  him  were  any  less  dear  to  him.  Indeed,  was 
it  not  because  he  could  better  advance  them  in  this  way  that  he 
had  taken  it  up  at  all  ?  If  this  were  a  deceptive  argument  it  at 
least  deceived  himself.  He  worked  diligently  at  his  article,  and 
when  on  the  evening  of  the  second  day  he  took  it  in  person  to 
Mr.  Binney  he  was  immensely  pleased  with  it,  and  thought  it 
was  by  all  odds  the  cleverest  thing  he  had  done,  lie  had  to 
wait  in  an  outer  office  a  long  time — so  it  seemed  to  him — before 
he  was  admitted  to  the  presence  of  the  editor, 

"  Oh,  how  are  you,  Mr.  Baretta  ?"  said  Binney,  looking  up  from 
his  littered  desk,  and  hastily  shoving  aside  a  bulky  manuscript 
and  several  galleys  of  proofs.  "  I  don't  often  see  any  one  in  the 
evening,  but  I  made  an  exception  in  your  case."  He  pulled  out 
his  watch  in  a  nervous  way,  and  then  touched  an  electric-bell 
and  lifted  to  his  ear  a  tube  that  hung  by  the  desk.  "  It's  after 
nine  o'clock — I  didn't  know  it  was  so  late.  Mr.  Smith,"  he  called 
through  the  tube,  "  hurry  that  B  matter,  and  let  me  have  the  re- 
vises as  soon  as  you  can  !  Now,  Mr.  Baretta,  I  can  give  you  five 
minutes." 

"I  am  sorry  to  intrude,"  began  the  young  man,  flushing;  "I 
didn't  realize  you  would  be  so  busy." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right ;  I'm  always  busy.  We  liked  your  last 
articles  very  much.  They  have  attracted  a  good  deal  of  atten- 

160 


tion.  What  do  you  think  of  my  idea  of  writing  up  the  leaders 
in  the  movement?  I  suppose  you're  not  all  so  equal  that  yon 
don't  have  leaders  ?" 

"  I've  begun  with  a  sketch  of  Mr.  Ditton.  I  know  him  very 
well." 

"Ditton — Ditton;  the  name  strikes  me  as  familiar." 

"  Perhaps  you've  heard  of  his  preaching  on  the  Common,  sir." 

"  Ah,  yes,  yes  —  Ditton,  the  Socialist  preacher — that's  the 
man.  Well,  that  ought  to  be  interesting.  Just  leave  the  copy 
and  I'll  look  it  over  to-morrow." 

"And — and  when,"  asked  Baretta,  rising  to  go,  "  may  I  send 
you  another  ?" 

"  Oh,  when  you  like.  I  can't  promise  to  publish  them  as  fast 
as  you  send  them  ;  we're  always  crowded  with  more  stuff  than 
we  can  use.  But  I  should  think  that  perhaps  once  a  fortnight, 
or  every  three  weeks — " 

Once  a  fortnight !  Why,  even  if  all  his  articles  were  taken, 
and  he  got  ten  dollars  apiece  for  them,  that  would  only  be  five 
dollars  a  week.  Baretta  made  this  simple  computation  almost 
instantaneously.  Five  dollars  a  week !  How  could  he  live  on 
five  dollars  a  week  ? 

"  I — I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  he  stammered.  Mr. 
Binney  was  not  a  formidable  person,  but  somehow  his  position 
as  an  editor  made  him  seem  so  to  Baretta,  and  he  quite  lost  his 
usual  air  of  confidence  in  his  presence.  "  There  is  no  other 
opening — there  is  nothing  else  I  could  do  ?" 

"  Why,  no,  I  think  not,"  replied  the  editor,  leaning  back  in 
his  chair  and  smiling  faintly.  "  There  is  no  vacancy  on  our 
staff  at  present,  and  if  there  were  one  there  would  be  a  dozen  ap- 
plicants for  it.  Perhaps  you  might  find  a  chance  on  the  Trumpet 
— I'll  give  you  a  note  to  Carson,  if  you  like — or  on  the  Ban- 
ner. But  we  shall  always  be  glad  to  hear  from  you.  The  same 
address  ?  No  ?  Well,  send  it  with  the  next  batch  of  copy. 
Good-evening,  Mr.  Baretta.  Oh,  by  the  way,"  Mr.  Binney  called 
out,  as  the  young  man  was  fumbling  at  the  door  in  a  disconcerted 
way,  "  here's  something  that  may  interest  you.  It's  a  despatch 
from  Vienna — came  down  in  the  proofs  a  few  moments  ago — 
and,  of  course,  I  thought  of  you  at  once." 
L  101 


Baretta  took  the  printed  slip  and  drew  a  few  steps  nearer  to 
the  light  to  read  it.  There  were  only  half  a  dozen  lines  in  the 
item,  but  the  young  man's  hands  trembled  so  that  at  first  he 
could  hardly  gather  their  meaning.  "  M.  Paul  Baretta-Smolzow, 
Baron  Smolzow,  is  dead,"  it  ran.  "  He  was  sixty-eight  and  un- 
married, and  it  is  believed  that  the  nearest  heir  to  the  estates  is 
a  cousin  who  went  to  America  a  great  many  years  ago,  and  has 
never  been  heard  of  since.  Baron  Smolzow  had  lived  in  retire- 
ment for  some  time,  although  formerly  he  was  well  known  in  the 
diplomatic  world." 

For  a  moment  the  room  seemed  to  spin  before  the  young  man's 
eyes.  He  sat  down  again,  feeling  sick  and  faint.  Paul  Baretta- 
Smolzow  !  His  father's  name  was  Paul  Baretta — his  father,  a 
drunken  barber,  a  worthless  scapegrace  who  had  married  a  fac- 
tory-girl !  It  was  absurd  to  imagine  that  there  could  be  any  con- 
nection between  the  two  men.  What  could  be  more  common 
than  a  coincidence  of  this  sort — a  man  of  ignoble  birth  bearing 
a  noble  name  ?  And  yet  Mr.  Binney  had  thought  that  it  might 
interest  him — the  son  of  a  barber.  He  could  not  tell  the  editor 
how  absurd  such  a  supposition  was.  Would  the  Lawrences,  and 
Mrs.  Chilton,  and  the  rest  think  it  absurd  ?  Then  he  thought 
how  much  their  belief  in  it  might  mean  to  him. 

"Of  course,"  Mr.  Binney  was  saying,  "you  could  hardly  be 
the  cousin  who  came  to  this  country  many  years  ago.  You  were 
born  here,  were  you  not  ?  But  the  name  Baretta  ;  it  isn't  a  com- 
mon one — at  least,  in  these  parts." 

««  My — my  father  came  from  Hungary  in  1848,  when  he — was 
a  very  young  man,"  said  Baretta,  wiping  the  cold  sweat  from  his 
forehead. 

"  Why,  of  course — then  you  must  be  Baron  Smolzow."  Bin- 
ney spoke  jocosely,  and  Baretta,  although  he  could  not  make  up 
his  mind  to  yield  to  the  temptation  which  had  assailed  him,  re- 
sented the  implication  that  such  a  thing  was  at  all  incredible. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Binney,  as  to  that  I  can't  say."  He  resolved  to 
tell  nothing  more  than  the  truth  and  leave  the  other  to  draw  his 
own  inferences.  Surely  there  could  be  nothing  wrong  in  that ! 
"  My  father's  name  was  Paul  Baretta,  and  he  came  here  in  1848, 
during  the  troubles  in  Hungary — the  Kossuth  rebellion,  you 

162 


know.  At  least,"  he  added,  with  a  scrupulous  regard  for  the 
comfort  of  his  conscience,  "  so  he  used  to  tell  me." 

"  Why,  why,  this  is  worth  looking  into  !  Your  father  must 
have  left  some  papers — something  to  prove  his  identity.  Did 
he  never  give  you  a  hint  of  anything  of  this  sort  ?" 

Baretta  hesitated.  He  saw  that  he  stood  now  at  the  parting 
of  the  ways,  and  that  if  he  denied  any  suspicion  of  former  an- 
cestral glories  it  would  be  difficult  to  pass  hereafter  for  anything 
more  than  plain  Francis  Baretta.  And  she — who  had  not  even 
shaken  hands  with  him  when  she  bade  him  good-bye — she  would 
still  think  of  him  as  one  infinitely  beneath  her,  one  to  whom 
kindness  would  be  condescension.  He  made  up  his  mind  which 
way  to  take. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  won't  say  that  he  didn't,"  he  said,  with  a  rather 
tremulous  effort  to  appear  at  ease. 

"  This  is  interesting — it  is,  indeed.  And  you  think  he  may 
have  had  some  proofs  of  his  birth  ?" 

"  Proofs  ?  What  would  be  proofs  ?"  Baretta  looked  at  Mr. 
Binney  curiously,  as  if  anticipating  suspicion. 

"  Well,  you  know,"  laughed  the  editor,  "  you  can't  get  those 
estates  by  merely  saying  you  are  Francis  Baretta — can  you 
now?" 

"  Oh,  the  estates  !     I  had  forgotten  the  estates." 

"  They're  a  good  deal  more  important  than  the  title,  to  my 
mind.  What  is  it — Baron  Smolzow  ?  You  Hungarians  pro- 
nounce your  '  ows '  in  that  way — '  off,'  don't  you  ?" 

"  I — I  believe  so,  sir.  But  you  may  be  mistaken — it  may  be 
only  a  coincidence.  A  very  queer  one,  to  be  sure,"  Baretta 
added,  fearing  lest  he  might  be  laying  too  much  stress  upon  this 
point. 

"  I  should  look  it  up  if  I  were  you,"  said  Mr.  Binney,  reach- 
ing for  the  proofs  which  had  just  been  shot  out  of  a  pneumatic 
tube  close  at  hand.  "  Come  in  to-morrow  or  next  day,  and  talk 
to  one  of  our  men  about  it.  Oh,  we  must  have  that  interview 
with  you  now.  Good-night,  Mr.  Baretta ;  I  won't  call  you  Baron 
until  I  am  sure  of  it,  you  know."  And  he  laughed  with  the  air 
of  one  who  is  used  to  having  his  wit  appreciated. 

Baretta  pressed  both  hands  excitedly  to  his  forehead  as  he 

163 


stepped  out  into  the  cool  night  air ;  his  brain  still  whirled  with 
the  tumult  of  emotion  which  that  insignificant  despatch  from 
Vienna  had  aroused.  Surely  it  was  a  strange  coincidence,  what- 
ever way  one  looked  at  it.  Baron  Smolzow  !  Had  he,  indeed, 
any  right  to  claim  that  title?  He  saw  as  in  a  dream  all  that 
might  come  if  he  should  claim  it,  right  or  no  right.  No  longer 
a  poor,  unknown,  struggling  foreigner,  with  only  his  brains  to 
help  him,  but,  instead,  a  man  with  an  ancestral  name  of  which 
he  might  well  be  proud ;  more  than  the  equal  of  those  who  had 
hitherto  regarded  him  with  hardly  concealed  condescension. 
Francis  Baretta,  the  surviving  heir  of  the  noble  house  of  Smol- 
zow !  He  had  never  heard  of  Baron  Smolzow  in  his  life,  but  he 
went  on  inventing  all  sort  of  dignities  and  honours  for  him. 
Francis  Baretta — Baron  Smolzow  !  What  proof  would  there  be 
that  he  was  not  the  man  ?  "A  cousin  who  went  to  America 
many  years  ago,  and  has  never  been  heard  of  since — "  the 
words  of  the  despatch  seemed  to  be  printed  on  his  brain  in  fiery 
letters.  Suppose  it  were  impossible  to  find  him.  Who  could 
then  say  that  he  was  not  the  son  of  this  cousin  ?  Of  course 
some  effort  would  be  made  to  acquaint  the  heir  of  those  estates 
with  the  good-fortune  that  had  befallen  him.  The  estates  !  The 
late  baron  had  no  doubt  been  a  wealthy  man,  and  now  all  his 
money  was  going  begging  for  some  one  to  inherit  it.  If  the 
cousin  were  not  found,  who  would  step  in  to  claim  them  ?  There 
must  be  somebody,  of  course. 

Proofs  !  proofs  !  Binncy  had  said  there  must  be  proofs.  The 
words  recurred  to  him  with  mechanical  iteration  as  he  walked 
up  Tremont  Street  towards  Manchester  Square.  What  proofs 
could  be  wanted  ?  how  could  he  give  any  ?  He  tried  in  vain 
to  recall  distinctly  anything  that  his  father  had  ever  said  of  his 
career  in  the  land  of  his  birth ;  but  he  was  too  much  agitated 
now  to  put  such  hints  together  and  make  a  connected  story,  even 
if  he  had  ever  received  them.  Besides,  that  was  a  long  time  ago, 
and  how  could  a  mere  boy,  as  he  was  then,  be  expected  to  re- 
member ?  Half  unconsciously  he  began  to  invent  for  himself  a 
tale  to  bridge  the  gap.  The  elder  Baretta  had  come  to  America 
in  1848 ;  there,  at  least,  was  a  starting-point.  But  when  did 
the  cousin  who  had  never  been  heard  of  since  come  ?  It  was 

164 


essential  to  know  that.  Proofs  !  proofs !  How  ridiculously 
brief  that  despatch  had  been.  It  didn't  even  tell  where  Baron 
Paul  had  died,  or  where  his  estates  were.  If  he  were  to  have 
recollections  of  early  splendours  described  by  his  father  he  must 
surely  know  something  more  than  the  papers  had  told  him. 
Could  he  gain  this  knowledge  before  it  was  too  late,  or  must  he 
come  forward  now  and  say,  "  I  am  Francis  Baretta,  son  of  Paul 
Baretta,  who  came  to  America  years  ago,  and  mine  are  the  es- 
tates and  title."  Let  the  others — so  he  vaguely  thought  of  pos- 
sible claimants  at  home — show  that  his  assertion  was  false  if 
they  could.  Baron  Smolzow !  Perhaps  those  who  knew  him 
would  accept  the  assertion  for  proof.  But  no ;  how  could  he 
tell  a  lie  like  that  and  look  into  her  pure  eyes  ?  If  she  despised 
him  now,  would  she  not  despise  him  the  more  when  she  discov- 
ered the  truth  ?  And  yet  was  there  any  other  way  of  making 
himself  her  equal — one  whom  she  would  talk  with  freely  and  no 
longer  regard  with  a  kind  of  gentle  scorn?  It  was  unjust  to 
Mildred,  indeed,  to  say  that  she  had  ever  scorned  him,  but  per- 
haps the  young  man  was  in  no  mood  to  be  just.  Baron  Smol- 
zow !  How  those  who  despised  him  now  would  fawn  upon  him 
then.  Would  he  not  be  a  fool  to  let  the  opportunity  go  by  ? 
Probably  the  cousin  who  had  come  to  America  was  dead  by  this 
time,  or,  if  he  were  alive,  he  might  never  know.  Why  shouldn't 
he  himself  enjoy  these  honours,  and  perhaps  this  wealth,  if  they 
remained  unclaimed?  Baron  Smolzow  !  Proofs!  proofs!  The 
words  were  still  keeping  up  a  kind  of  rhythmical  chant  in  his 
brain  as  he  let  himself  into  the  house  in  Manchester  Square  and 
stole  softly  up-stairs  to  his  narrow  room.  It  had  seemed  to  him 
luxurious  after  Arragon  Street,  but  now  it  struck  him  as  a  shab- 
by retreat  for  the  heir  to  a  title  and  estates.  Baron  Smolzow  ! 
who  had  less  than  ten  dollars  in  his  pocket  and  was  writing 
about  Socialism  for  a  newspaper !  The  conjunction  was  so  in- 
congruous that  he  gave  a  discordant  laugh,  which  somehow  star- 
tled himself  as  he  heard  it.  Why  should  he  laugh  like  that? 
There  was  nothing  to  laugh  at.  His  head  must  have  been  turned 
a  little  by  this  unexpected  news. 

165 


CHAPTER  XVII 
"IT  WILL  BE  A  GREAT  CHANGE" 

IT  was  rather  by  the  force  of  circumstances  than  by  his  own 
will,  after  all,  that  Baretta  became  confirmed  in  the  possession  of 
his  newly-acquired  title.  That  paragraph  in  the  Mail  which  ac- 
companied his  sketch  of  Ditton — the  paragraph  which  Yates  had 
seen — brought  a  score  of  reporters  and  correspondents  down  upon 
him;  so  that  M.  Paul  Baretta-Smolzow,  Baron  Smolzow,  had  more 
fame  on  one  side  of  the  ocean  in  his  death  than  he  had  ever  en- 
joyed while  he  lived.  Baretta  gave  the  Mail  "the  first  hack,"  as 
the  young  man  from  that  journal  who  came  to  see  him  expressed 
it,  and  after  that  talked  freely  to  all  who  would  listen.  It  was 
quite  true  that  he  didn't  have  any  very  definite  information  to 
impart.  But  there  was  that  strange  coincidence  to  be  got  over 
by  any  one  who  disputed  his  claim  to  be  considered  the  late 
Baron  Srnolzow's  heir.  The  Banner,  which  vaunted  itself  upon 
being  more  enterprising  than  any  of  its  competitors,  had  ordered 
its  correspondent  at  Berlin  to  proceed  to  Vienna  and  hunt  up 
the  history  of  the  Smolzow  family,  and  particularly  of  the 
erratic  cousin  who  came  to  America  so  many  years  ago.  The 
correspondent  obeyed  post-haste,  and  went  not  only  to  Vienna 
but  to  Budapest,  where  he  gained  much  valuable  information. 
The  estates,  he  found,  were-  at  Bataszek.  They  were  not  large, 
but  the  family  residence  was  in  the  highest  degree  picturesque, 
and  all  that  any  baron  could  ask.  Besides,  the  late  baron, 
after  a  youth  spent  in  extravagance,  had  become  extremely 
economical,  and  it  was  supposed  that  he  had  left  a  tidy  sum  of 
money  invested  in  good  securities.  As  for  the  lost  cousin,  he 
had  fled  from  his  native  land  as  a  consequence  of  complicity  in 

166 


the  Kossuth  rebellion.  His  name,  too,  was  Paul.  What  more 
cogent  proof  could  Francis  Baretta,  the  son  of  Paul  Baretta,  an 
exile  of  1848,  ask  to  have?  It  was  all  wonderfully  direct  and 
plain.  Unfortunately,  a  court  of  law  would  want  documents, 
and  these  did  not  seem  to  be  forthcoming. 

But  meanwhile  why  should  any  one  doubt  that  Francis  Baretta 
was  really  Baron  Smolzow  ?  The  humble  position  in  life  which 
his  father  had  occupied  was  known  only  to  himself,  nor  did  he 
confide  in  any  one  the  suspicion  that  the  name  of  Paul  Baretta 
might  not  have  been  rightfully  his.  He  excused  this  reticence 
by  saying  that  he  had  put  forth  no  pretensions  to  the  title.  He 
admitted  the  strangeness  of  the  coincidence,  and  left  it  to  others 
to  draw  what  inferences  they  pleased.  Perhaps  such  an  attitude 
was  more  convincing  than  any  amount  of  protestation ;  and  it 
had  the  further  advantage  of  enabling  him  to  disclaim  any  in- 
tentional deceit  if  the  Paul  Baretta  who  was  cousin  to  the  late 
baron,  or  any  heir  of  his,  should  turn  up.  In  that  case  he  could 
simply  say  that  his  father  had  been  Paul  Baretta,  and  if  he  were 
not  related  to  the  house  of  Smolzow  then  the  coincidence  must 
be  regarded  as  stranger  still.  It  took  him  some  time  to  argue 
out  the  matter  in  this  way  ;  but  after  many  hours  of  anxious 
thought  such  was  the  conclusion  that  he  reached.  He  had  no 
chance  for  the  present  to  try  to  obtain  the  estate,  although  he 
intended  to  make  his  existence  known  to  the  other  heirs  in 
Hungary,  and  let  them  undertake  the  task  of  showing  that  he  had 
no  claim.  Meanwhile  this  shadowy  succession  to  the  title  would 
be  worth  something  to  him.  Baretta  took  occasion  to  state  his 
position  very  clearly  in  another  "  interview,"  which  appeared  in 
the  Banner  after  the  energetic  correspondent  at  Berlin  had  sent 
the  results  of  his  researches  into  the  family  history  of  the 
Smolzows,  and  had  described  with  much  vividness  of  detail  the 
ancestral  seat  at  Bataszek.  If  sometimes  his  conscience  re- 
proached him,  despite  all  his  sophistries,  he  did  his  best  to  quiet 
it  by  saying  that  the  deception  harmed  no  one,  and  that  a  man 
situated  as  he  was  must  use  whatever  means  he  could  to  get  on. 
And  the  immediate  consequence  was  that  he  got  on  very  well. 
The  people  who  could  help  him  in  his  social  aspirations  were 
still  out  of  town,  but  meanwhile  his  earning  capacity  as  a  jour- 

167 


nalist  was  immensely  increased.  He  continued  to  provide  his 
sketches  for  the  Mail,  and  began  a  series  of  articles  on  the 
needs  of  the  poorer  classes  for  the  Banner.  His  education  had 
been  imperfect,  but  he  had  a  certain  degree  of  facility  with  the 
pen,  and  where  he  was  ignorant  he  was  clever  enough  to  conceal 
it.  Besides,  newspaper  readers  are  not  always  critical.  He 
found  this  out  when  he  sent  an  article  on  Socialism  to  one 
of  the  magazines  and  had  it  promptly  returned  to  him  as 
unavailable.  Perhaps  the  editor  did  not  know  that  Fran- 
cis Baretta  was  Baron  Smolzow,  or  he  would  have  decided 
differently. 

But  there  were  more  vexatious  matters  than  this  to  consider 
— chief  among  them  his  relations  with  Maud,  which  had  always 
been  incongruous  and  were  now  clearly  impossible.  How  could 
the  heir  to  an  ancient  title  marry  the  daughter  of  an  ignorant 
Irish  mechanic?  He  forgot,  when  he  asked  himself  this  ques- 
tion, that  his  own  father  had  been  a  barber  and  his  mother  a 
factory-girl.  He  remembered  it  afterwards,  and  had  the  grace 
to  be  ashamed  for  the  moment  of  the  disingenuousness  of  the 
argument ;  but  he  soon  came  to  see  that  in  following  the  course 
he  had  marked  out  for  himself  scruples  of  this  sort  would  be 
out  of  place.  Francis  Baretta  might  have  married  Maud  Dolan, 
though  even  then  it  would  have  been  a  sad  mesalliance  ;  Baron 
Smolzow  could  not  do  it  under  any  circumstances.  In  conse- 
quence of  this  decision  he  said  nothing  at  all  to  Maud  concern- 
ing his  altered  fortunes.  Since  he  had  taken  the  room  in 
Manchester  Square  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  meeting  her 
every  evening  as  she  came  away  from  the  shop,  and  walking 
with  her  as  far  as  the  corner  of  Arragon  Street.  For  a  week 
after  his  eventful  call  upon  Mr.  Binney  he  continued  the  custom. 
Then  for  a  whole  week  she  did  not  see  him  at  all.  Of  course 
he  knew  perfectly  well  that  he  could  not  disappear  from  her 
horizon  in  this  way.  Bnt  many  a  man  in  the  success  of  tem- 
porary expedients  forgets  the  inevitable  failure  when  these  are 
exhausted. 

And  Maud  ?  At  first  she  thought  he  had  forgotten,  and  was 
angry  ;  then  that  something  had  kept  him,  and  was  sorry.  -When 
a  fourth  evening  came  and  he  was  still  missing,  the  conviction 

168 


that  he  was  staying  away  on  purpose  struck  a  sudden  chill  to 
her  heart.  She  went  home  with  a  stoic  resolve  to  endure  this 
latest  buffet  from  the  hand  of  Fate  without  complaining,  but  the 
gift  of  self-control  had  been  denied  to  her,  and  so  she  broke 
down  utterly  and  sobbed  herself  to  sleep.  At  last  it  occurred  to 
her  that  he  must  be  ill,  and  she  reproached  herself  bitterly  for 
ever  thinking  anything  else,  and  for  leaving  him  to  suffer  alone. 
The  next  afternoon  she  set  out  for  Manchester  Square.  Very 
possibly  he  would  scold  her  for  coming ;  it  wasn't  the  thing  to 
do  at  all  ;  but  she  didn't  care  for  that  if  he  needed  her.  She 
fancied  that  the  woman  who  came  to  the  door  looked  at  her 
suspiciously  as  she  asked  her  to  be  seated  in  the  large  and  lofty 
parlour,  desolate  enough  in  the  tawdriness  of  its  furnishings, 
which  opened  from  the  hall. 

"  Is  he  sick  ?"  began  Maud,  breathlessly,  pausing  on  the  thresh- 
old. "  Can't  I  go  straight  up  ?" 

"  You  set  there,  miss.  No,  he  ain't  sick  that  I  know  of,"  the 
woman  added,  with  a  more  surly  air  than  ever. 

Maud  knew  what  this  reply  meant  and  blushed  angrily.  "  I 
guess  it's  all  right,"  she  said,  with  a  toss  of  her  head.  "  I'm 
his  girl — we're  going  to  be  married." 

"  Going  to  ain't  is.  If  Mr.  Baretta's  in  he'll  come  down  and 
see  you." 

This  epigrammatic  if  ungrammatical  reminder  of  the  uncer- 
tainty of  natural  events  and  the  vanity  of  human  wishes  in- 
creased the  nervous  tension  under  which  the  girl  was  labouring. 
She  sat  in  this  doleful  parlour  for  what  seemed  to  her  a  long 
time.  Frank  must  be  at  home  or  the  woman  would  have  come 
back  to  tell  her  he  wasn't.  Why,  then,  did  he  keep  her  waiting? 
Did  he  hope  that  she  would  go  away  without  seeing  him  at  all  ? 
Well,  that  was  what  she  would  do  in  about  a  minute.  He  was 
not  ill,  and  yet  he  had  neglected  her  for  a  whole  week.  Hadn't 
she  good  cause  to  be  angry  ?  She  rose  to  her  feet  impatiently 
as  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  coming  down  the  stairs  and 
hurried  to  the  door  to  meet  him. 

Baretta  started  back  when  he  saw  who  his  visitor  was.  "  Oh 
— why,  Maud — is  it — is  it  you  ?"  he  stammered. 

"  Me  !  who  else  should  it  be  ?"  cried  the  girl. 

169 


"  Well,  I  was  only  told  a  young  person  wanted  to  see  me,  and 
of  course  I — I — " 

"  Of  course  you'd  forgotten  any  young  person  you  hadn't 
seen  for  a  week."  Maud  laughed  bitterly,  but  there  was  a 
choking  sensation  in  her  throat,  and  she  turned  away  to  hide 
from  him  the  tear  which  slowly  trickled  down  her  cheek. 

"Don't  be  silly,"  said  Baretta.  He  knew  that  he  was  treating 
her  badly,  and  the  knowledge  made  him  irritable. 

"  I  won't  be  silly  any  more,  Frank,"  replied  Maud,  as  calmly 
as  she  could.  "  I  won't  be  silly  enough  to  think  any  longer  that 
you  care  for  me." 

"You  shouldn't  say  that,"  he  began,  paltering  even  yet  with 
the  decision  which  he  believed  he  had  reached.  "  You  know 
that  I  care  for  you — I  always  shall,  whatever  happens.  I — I 
was  going  to  meet  you  to-night  to  tell  you — unless,  indeed,  you 
saw  it  in  the  papers — " 

"  Bother  the  papers — I  don't  read  them.  What  should  I  see 
in  the  papers  ?  But  perhaps  it's  something  you've  been  writing, 
Frank." 

"  It  will  be  a  great  change  for  me — for  us  both."  She  looked 
at  him  questioningly  as  he  said  this,  and  his  eyes  dropped  be- 
fore her  gaze.  "Won't  you  come  in?"  he  added,  advancing 
into  the  parlour  and  drawing  forward  a  chair. 

She  followed  him  mechanically  and  sat  down,  but  her  lips 
were  trembling  and  her  face  was  very  pale  as  she  waited  to 
hear  what  he  had  to  say.  What  she  was  thinking  was  that  he 
had  not  once  kissed  her — and  after  a  whole  week,  too. 

"  I — I  thought  you  might  have  seen  it  in  the  papers,"  said 
Baretta  at  last.  "  My  father's  cousin — at  least  I  suppose  he's 
that — has  died,  and  I — " 

"  Yes,  and  you  ?"  interrupted  Maud,  impatiently. 

"  I — I  am  Baron  Smolzow."  He  threw  himself  into  an  atti- 
tude which  he  fancied  a  chance  spectator  would  have  found 
very  impressive.  "  Baron  Smolzow,"  he  repeated,  waving  his 
hand  airily. 

The  girl  simply  gazed  at  him  with  uncomprehending  eyes. 
The  announcement  seemed  to  convey  to  her  no  meaning  at  all. 

"  Baron  Smolzow,"  said  Baretta  again,  after  a  moment  of  si- 

170 


lence.  "  Don't  you  understand  ?  The  news  came  from  Vienna 
in  the  papers.  My  father  was  Paul  Baretta — the  cousin  who 
came  to  America  in  1848  and  whom  they  are  looking  for  now." 
As  Maud  still  gave  no  sign  of  understanding  him,  he  added : 
"  Why,  I've  often  told  you  about  my  family  —  don't  be  so 
stupid." 

"  I — I  guess  I  am  rather  stupid,  Frank,"  said  Maud,  slowly. 
She  started  to  rise,  but  the  room  seemed  to  be  turning  around, 
and  she  sank  back  into  the  chair  again. 

But  Baretta  noticed  nothing.  He  was  too  much  intent  upon 
trying  to  impress  her  with  an  adequate  sense  of  the  ancestral 
glories  which  had  descended  upon  him.  "  Of  course  I  should 
have  told  you  all  about  it,  Maud,"  he  added,  graciously.  "  We 
neither  of  us  thought,  did  we,  that  things  would  turn  out  so  ? 
You  often  said  that  I  ought  to — that  ray  family  was  different 
from  yours — I  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelings,  Maud,  but  you 
know  what  I  mean." 

He  paused,  but  she  made  no  answer,  which  increased  his  irri- 
tation. It  was  not  a  pleasant  position  he  was  in,  at  best,  and 
she  might  do  something  to  help  him  out.  But  he  had  often  felt 
that  she  was  selfish. 

"  Well,  it's  quite  a  long  story,"  said  Baretta,  "  and  as  you  don't 
seem  to  be  much  interested  in  it — " 

"  I  am  listening,  Frank.     What  is  there  for  me  to  say  ?" 

"  Oh,  if  you  take  it  that  way  !  I  thought  you  would  be  glad 
to  hear  of  my  good-fortune.  You've  told  me  so  many  times 
that  I  ought  to  cut  loose  from  every  one — I  mean  from  Ditton 
and  those  fellows,  of  course — and  associate  with  people  of  my 
own  class — " 

Maud  was  not  a  lady,  to  be  sure,  but  perhaps  she  behaved  as 
nearly  like  one  then  as  at  any  time  in  all  her  life.  The  blow 
was  so  crushing,  she  felt  its  consequences  to  be  so  irrevocable, 
that  she  was  fairly  numbed  by  it  into  a  kind  of  dull  acquies- 
cence in  her  fate.  And  she  wanted  to  get  away  before  he  had 
shamed  himself  any  further  before  her.  It  was  this  noble  im- 
pulse of  magnanimity  which  lifted  her  for  the  moment  above 
her  natural  level,  and  showed  how  much  she  might  have  achieved 
for  herself  under  happier  conditions. 

171 


"  I  suppose  you  will  shake  hands  with  me  and  —  and  say 
good-bye,"  said  Maud,  rising  once  more,  resolved  to  permit  no 
foolish  feminine  weakness  to  overcome  her. 

"  Good-bye  ?  Why  should  you  say  good-bye  ?"  asked  Baretta, 
taking  the  out-stretched  fingers  in  his.  He  was  immensely  re- 
lieved to  find  that  she  did  not  intend  to  make  a  "scene,"  but 
he  was  still  anxious  to  delude  himself  with  the  belief  that  if 
they  separated  it  would  be  her  doing.  "  No,  no,  Maud — I  shall 
come  to  see  you  in  a  day  or  two.  It  isn't  good-bye  yet." 

"Don't!"  she  cried,  sharply,  releasing  herself  as  he  bent  for- 
ward to  kiss  her.  She  walked  quickly  to  the  door,  but  turned 
at  the  threshold.  "  I — I  guess  you'll  be  happy,  Frank.  I  shall 
like  to  think  of  you  as  a  great  man,  that  wasn't  too  proud  to  go 
about  with  the  likes  of  me  !" 

"But,  Maud  !  Maud  ! — you  don't  know  what  you're  saying — " 

The  closing  of  the  front  door  cut  short  this  remonstrance. 
He  stood  gazing  blankly  at  the  spot  where  she  had  been  stand- 
ing only  the  moment  before ;  and  a  pang — half  sorrow,  half  re- 
proach— invaded  his  heart  when  he  remembered  all  that  this 
parting  meant.  And  yet  what  had  he  said,  what  had  he  done, 
that  was  unkind  ?  He  was  relieved  to  think  there  had  been  no 
"  scene."  But  he  felt  somehow  as  if  things  would  go  all  the 
harder  with  Maud  on  this  account.  He  tried  to  excuse  him- 
self by  saying  that  he  had  not  wanted  to  make  so  abrupt  an 
ending  of  their  relations.  He  hoped  that  she  would  see  the 
folly  of  looking  forward  to  marrying  him,  but  meanwhile  he 
would  have  continued — for  the  time,  at  least — the  semblance  of 
devotion  to  her.  It  was  like  a  woman  to  take  a  man  too  literally. 
Perhaps  the  knowledge  that  he  had  lost  her  stirred  in  him  a 
little  revival  of  kindly  emotion  that  was  almost  love ;  so  that 
he  made  up  his  mind  at  last  not  to  give  her  up  quite  so 
easily.  He  was  sure  that  he  had  only  to  go  to  her  to  win  her 
back. 

It  was  before  he  had  an  opportunity  to  do  this,  however,  that 
Ditton  came  to  sec  him.  Baretta  was  actually  a  little  lonely  at 
this  period  of  his  career,  having  cut  loose  from  old  associations 
before  he  had  found  new  ones,  and  he  was  glad  to  receive  a 
visit  from  his  old  leader.  He  flung  the  door  of  his  chamber 

m 


open  wide  in  response  to  Ditton's  knock.     ll  Well,  this  is  pleas- 
ant," he  said. 

"  Is  it  ?"  asked  Ditton,  dryly.  He  stepped  inside,  ignoring 
Baretta's  out-stretched  hand.  "  What  did  you  mean  by  writing 
that  stuff  in  the  Mail  about  me  ?"  he  said. 

"  Why — why,  didn't  you  like  it  ?"  stammered  Baretta. 

"  Like  it !  How  can  you  ask  the  question  ?  See  here,  Baret- 
ta, I've  got  just  about  two  words  to  say  to  you,  and  I'll  say  'em 
quick,  and  then  I'll  go."  Ditton  paused  for  a  moment ;  but  as 
the  other  stared  at  him  in  silence,  went  on  in  measured  tones,  as 
if  the  matter  were  one  in  which  he  had  no  interest  whatever : 
"  I've  read  all  that  stuff  about  you  and  your  rubbishy  title,  and 
I'm  prepared  to  lose  you  as  a  helper  in  the  cause.  I've  felt  for 
some  time  that  you  wouldn't  hold  out.  Well,  perhaps  that's  all 
right.  After  the  row  you  were  fool  enough  to  have  with  Luck 
I  don't  know  what  you  could  do,  anyway.  But  I  didn't  think 
the  time  would  ever  come  when  I  should  refuse  to  take 
your  hand  because  I  had  found  you  out  to  be  a  mean  skunk. 
That's  plain  English,  ain't  it  ?  And  that's  all  I  have  to  say  to 
you." 

Baretta,  amazed  at  the  outset  by  the  suddenness  of  the  at- 
tack, now  turned  upon  his  accuser  a  face  livid  with  rage  and 
hate.  "  Oh,  I  knew  it  would  come — I  knew  you'd  show  your- 
self in  your  true  colours.  So  you  hate  me,  do  you  ?"  he  screamed, 
shaking  his  fist  and  stamping  his  foot.  "  You  call  me  a  skunk 
— me?  after  all  I've  done  for  you.  Why,  I  —  I  wrote  about 
you,  you  fool,  because  I  wanted  to  help  you — " 

"  Yes,  and  that  was  the  lowest  trick  of  all,"  interrupted 
Ditton. 

"Trick!  It's  you  that  played  the  trick — pretending  to  be 
my  friend,  and  then  setting  a  lot  of  drunken  devils  on  me  to 
kill  me.  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  it?  Why,  I  heard  you 
and  Luck  planning  it  all —  Damn  you,  there  you  are  shaking 
your  head  now  and  muttering  that  you'll  down  me  yet !  You — 
you!  How  dare  you  call  me  names?  Who's  the  traitor  now  ? 
Not  me  —  not  Baron  Smolzow  !"  He  dropped  panting  into  a 
chair,  his  eyes  rolling  terribly  and  his  mouth  distorted  in  a  kind 
of  frenzy. 

173 


"  Good  heavens,  man  !  are  you  mad  or  drunk  ?"  cried  Ditton, 
looking  at  him  with  a  strange  sense  of  horror. 

Baretta  rose  to  his  feet  again,  and,  rushing  across  the  room, 
unlocked  a  drawer  in  his  desk  and  drew  out  a  bank-note.  "  There 
it  is  !"  he  cried ;  "  there's  the  money  you  wouldn't  take  from  me 
— the  dirty  ten  dollars.  Well,  you'll  take  it  now.  I  can  get 
plenty  more  in  spite  of  you  all.  Take  it !"  He  thrust  the  note 
into  Ditton's  hand,  but  Ditton  let  it  drop  to  the  floor.  "  Oh, 
you  won't  take  it?"  cried  Baretta,  stooping  to  seize  it.  "Well, 
I  want  you  to  see  that  I  don't  use  it."  He  fluttered  the  note 
wildly  in  the  air  a  moment.  "  Ten  dollars  !  Now  is  your  last 
chance.  There — there — there — there  !"  At  each  word  he  tore 
the  note,  only  stopping  when  it  had  been  reduced  to  pieces  so 
minute  that  no  one  could  ever  put  it  together  again.  "  Are 
you  satisfied  now  ?"  he  asked,  flinging  up  both  arms  and  laugh- 
ing loudly. 

To  this  frantic  tirade  Ditton  made  no  reply.  If  he  had  come 
to  see  this  young  man  with  feelings  of  anger,  it  was  with  a  sor- 
rowful heart  that  he  left  him.  What  did  it  all  mean  ?  Was  Ba- 
retta out  of  his  head  ?  Ditton  stood  with  his  hand  on  the  knob, 
looking  at  him  in  a  puzzled  way  for  a  moment.  Then  he  said, 
"  Well,  I'm  sorry  to  have  a  bad  opinion  of  you,  Baretta,  but  I 
can't  help  it,"  and  so  went  away. 

Baretta  walked  up  and  down  the  room  in  a  bewildered  sort 
of  fashion  for  some  time  after  this.  He  could  not  recall  exactly 
what  had  taken  place  at  first ;  there  was  only  a  confused  sense 
of  wrath  in  his  mind.  Then  Ditton's  opprobrious  epithet  came 
back  to  him,  and  he  shook  his  fist  and  stamped  his  foot  once 
more,  although  there  was  no  one  by  to  see.  He  was  being  very 
unfairly  treated.  Maud  first,  and  then  Ditton,  had  tried  to  put 
him  in  the  wrong.  But,  after  all,  he  had  done  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of.  They  were  the  ones  who  ought  to  reproach  them- 
selves for  their  injustice  to  him.  Well,  let  them  all  conspire 
against  him ;  he  would  get  the  better  of  them  yet.  This  was 
the  idea  which  kept  recurring  to  him — the  idea  that  there  was 
some  conspiracy  of  which  he  was  the  object.  Perhaps  it  was 
unfair  to  connect  Maud  with  it,  but  of  Ditton's  hostility  he  no 
longer  had  any  doubt.  But  he  would  rise — he  would  rise  in 

174 


spite  of  all.  Baron  Smolzow  would  make  a  greater  name  for 
himself  than  even  Francis  Baretta  could  have  done.  He  had 
almost  forgotten  that  there  was  any  doubt  about  the  reality  of  his 
title.  His  past  seemed  somehow  to  be  separated  from  him  by 
a  gulf  which  it  would  be  impossible  to  recross.  Was  it  not 
best,  indeed,  to  forget  it  altogether  ?  Then  he  thought  of  Maud 
again.  Poor  Maud  !  he  had  been  very  fond  of  her,  after  all. 
The  recollection  of  his  fondness  seemed  to  dissipate  the  wild 
wrath  he  had  been  cherishing.  As  he  walked  up  and  down  he 
grew  calmer,  and  the  livid  look  of  rage  in  his  face  died  out. 
Poor  Maud !  He  must  see  her  once  more  and  try  to  explain 
things  to  her  a  little  more  clearly.  Then  he  seemed  to  hear 
that  strange  discordant  laugh  of  his  again — on  the  night  that  he 
had  first  learned  of  the  death  of  M.  Paul  Baretta-Sinolzow,  Baron 
Smolzow. 

175 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
THE   LION  OF  THE  HOUR 

YATES  was  a  little  late  in  reaching  Mrs.  Cadwallader's,  and  he 
found  her  pretty  rooms  crowded.  No  one  noticed  him  when  he 
came  in,  for  which  he  was  thankful.  Ever  since  he  had  prom- 
ised to  be  present  he  had  regretted  it,  and  if  he  could  have 
thought  of  any  good  excuse  for  staying  away  he  would  have 
availed  himself  of  it.  He  knew  that  Mildred  Lawrence  would 
be  there,  and  he  did  not  wish  to  meet  her  again.  Perhaps  he 
was  now  a  little  vexed  with  her,  as  well  as  grieved  by  her  per- 
sistent refusal  to  forgive  him.  He  remembered  how  coldly  she 
had  regarded  him  when  Daisy  Tredwell  tried  to  bring  them  to- 
gether once  more,  and  he  began  to  think  that  her  resentment 
was  unwomanly.  Even  Daisy  herself,  Mildred's  own  intimate 
friend,  had  sympathized  with  him.  Thus  the  danger  of  inter- 
meddling in  the  quarrels  of  lovers  was  again  demonstrated. 

But  Philip  could  not  refuse  Mrs.  Cadwallader's  invitation  sim- 
ply because  he  was  not  on  good  terms  with  one  of  her  guests. 
Mrs.  Cadwallader  was  one  of  his  oldest  friends,  and  his  liking 
for  her  was  very  hearty  and  genuine.  Besides,  her  house  was 
always  a  pleasant  one  to  visit.  Literally  speaking,  it  was  not  a 
house,  but  a  flat.  The  rooms  were  small  and  somewhat  incon- 
veniently arranged  ;  but  the  taste  displayed  in  their  adornment 
was  perfect.  Modern  notions  of  decoration  prevailed,  although 
they  were  not  allowed  to  run  riot.  There  were  draperies  and 
folding  screens,  little  tables  and  tete-a-tete  sofas,  and  number- 
less cosey  corners ;  and  yet  one  could  move  about  perfectly  well 
without  tripping  over  rugs  or  kicking  one's  shins  against  the 
furniture.  There  was  the  usual  variety  of  colour,  but  everything 

176 


was  so  placed  that  one  was  never  conscious  of  contrasts  remind- 
ing one  of  a  crazy-cushion  ;  and  the  prevailing  tint,  that  to  which 
all  the  others  seemed  to  be  subdued,  was  a  soft  yellow.  Thus 
on  the  gloomiest  days  one  could  almost  fancy  that  the  sun  was 
shining  somewhere. 

There  were  so  many  of  Mrs.  Cadwallader's  acquaintances  in 
the  rooms  on  this  bright  October  afternoon  that  the  surround- 
ings formed  only  a  vague  background  to  a  mass  of  well-dressed 
men  and  women.  A  young  lady  was  at  the  pianoforte  when 
Philip  entered,  singing  one  of  Tosti's  vapid  ballads.  He  stood 
at  the  back  of  the  room  until  she  had  finished.  Then  he  edged 
towards  a  corner  where  there  was  a  vacant  chair. 

"  Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mr.  Yatcs  ?"  said  a  voice  in  his  ear.  He 
turned  to  find  that  the  lady  of  whose  back  he  had  caught  a  glimpse 
when  he  sat  down  was  Miss  Linley.  "  I  haven't  seen  you  since 
you  were  at  the  Shoals  with  George,"  she  added,  amiably.  "  Did 
you  enjoy  your  trip  ?" 

"  Immensely — I  dare  say  your  brother  told  you  all  about  it." 

"  One's  brother  never  tells  one  anything."  Then  she  leaned 
slightly  forward  and  asked  in  a  mysterious  whisper,  "  Is  he  a 
friend  of  yours,  Mr.  Yates  ?" 

"  Your  brother  ?     I — I  don't  quite  understand." 

"  How  stupid  you  are  !     I  mean  the  Baron,  of  course." 

"  The  Baron  !     Oh  yes — I  am  rather  stupid." 

"You  think  that  he  is  a  baron — this  Mr.  Baretta?  And  he 
didn't  know  who  Plato  was — fancy  that !  I  met  him  at  Mrs. 
Chilton's,"  explained  Miss  Linley. 

"  Well,  as  to  that — you  know  what  the  newspapers  say." 

"  But  Mrs.  Cadwallader  says  that  she  holds  you  responsible 
for  him." 

"  Holds  me  responsible  !  Oh,  she  can't  do  that,  Miss  Linley. 
She  asked  me  to  bring  him  to  see  her,  and  I  was  very  glad  to  do 
so  ;  but  now  he  must  shift  for  himself." 

"  Then  you  don't  like  him — you  don't  believe  in  him  ?" 

"  Pardon  me — that  was  not  what  I  meant  at  all,"  said  Philip. 
He  was  irritated  at  this  questioning  about  Baretta,  whom  he  con- 
tinued somehow  to  distrust,  in  spite  of  all  resolutions  not  to  do 

so.     "  I  know  nothing  against  him.     I  dare  say  that  he's  a  very 
M  177 


good  sort  of  fellow.  He  is  clever,  at  all  events.  Haven't  all 
these  people  come  to  hear  him  ?" 

"  Oh,  well,  I  only  came  out  of  curiosity,"  said  Miss  Linley, 
rather  stiffly.  "I  prefer  something  that's  more  intellectual.  But 
it  was  I  who  suggested  this  to  him." 

"  Indeed  !" 

"Yes;  didn't  you  know?  I  told  him-at  Mrs.  Chilton's  that 
marnma  liked  to  have  things.  Of  course,  when  I  saw  how  ig- 
norant he  was,  I  had  to  give  him  a  hint.  But  people  of  that  sort 
push  themselves  forward  so  on  the  slightest  encouragement." 

"  Ah,  but  he  will  have  encouragement  enough  now  !"  exclaimed 
Philip,  rather  bitterly.  "  He  will  be  quite  the  lion  of  the 
season." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  asked  Miss  Linley.  She  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment and  then  added,  "  Perhaps  we  shall  have  to  ask  him  to 
Cambridge,  after  all." 

Philip  was  more  certain  than  ever  that  Baretta  would  be 
lionized  to  his  heart's  content  when  he  observed  how  Mrs.  Cad- 
wallader's  guests  crowded  around  him  after  the  lecture  was 
over.  It  annoyed  him  strangely  to  see  that  Mildred  Lawrence 
and  her  father  were  among  those  who  shook  hands  with  him 
and  congratulated  him.  Why  the  deuce  should  people  make 
such  a  fuss  over  a  commonplace  diatribe  against  society  ?  There 
was  something  ludicrous,  even  disgusting,  in  it.  Baretta  had 
certainly  proclaimed  no  new  truth ;  he  had  not  even  put  old 
ones  in  a  new  way.  His  lecture  had  simply  been  a  rather  in- 
genious rechauffe  of  the  familiar  Socialistic  arguments.  It  was 
creditable,  of  course,  considering  how  few  opportunities  the 
young  man  had  enjoyed  ;  but  it  was  not  remarkable.  However, 
a  baron  was  not  to  be  judged  too  critically.  Perhaps  Francis 
Baretta  would  have  been  a  lion,  but  as  Baron  Smol/ow  his  roar- 
ing was  irresistible.  It  was  not  every  protege  of  Mrs.  Chilton's 
who  found  himself  admitted  to  the  more  august  doors  of  Mrs. 
Cadwallader.  A  satiric  smile  crept  into  the  corners  of  Philip's 
mouth  when  he  saw  that  Charlie  Radford  and  Lord  Shetland 
were  also  shaking  hands  with  Baretta.  These  two  young  Eng- 
lishmen were  visitors  to  the  city  whom  everybody  was  dying  to 
know.  Perhaps  neither  would  have  attracted  much  attention 

178 


just  for  himself.  But  Lord  Shetland  was  the  son  and  heir  of  the 
Marquis  of  Thurso,  and  Charlie  Radford  was  his  intimate  friend. 
Philip  wondered  how  Baron  Smolzow  would  get  on  with  them, 
and  he  was  not  surprised,  a  little  later,  to  hear  Charlie  charac- 
terize him  as  "  a  queer  sort." 

"  Queerness  goes  a  long  way  in  Boston,"  said  Philip. 

"  Well,  then,  he  ought  to  reach  all  around  the  city,"  said 
Charlie.  "  What  the  deuce  do  they  call  him  Baron  for  ?" 

"  Have  you  never  heard  of  Baron  Smolzow  —  of  the  great 
Hungarian  family  of  Baretta  ?  My  dear  fellow,  where  have  you 
been  2" 

"Ah,  one  of  those  foreigners  !"  exclaimed  Radford,  contempt- 
uously. 

"  Oh,  here  you  are  !"  said  Mr.  Orrin  Fox  Allen,  coming  up  as 
Charlie  turned  to  talk  with  a  young  lady  in  blue  to  whom  Philip 
had  presented  him.  "Mrs.  Cadvvallader  has  been  asking  after 
you." 

"  I  am  only  waiting  for  my  chance,"  said  Philip.  "  One  likes 
to  have  one's  hostess  to  one's  self,  if  only  for  a  minute." 

"  I  fancy  you'll  have  to  wait  quite  a  while,  then.  Did  you 
ever  see  such  a  crush  ?" 

"  Is  it  Baron  Smolzow  or  Lord  Shetland  that  is  the  drawing 
card  ?"  asked  Philip. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  like  the  fellow  ?  Neither  do  I — Baretta,  I 
mean,"  added  Mr.  Allen.  "  I  rather  took  to  him  at  first,  but 
this  baron  business  —  pooh!"  And  he  waved  his  hand  con- 
temptuously. 

"  Why  should  we  doubt  it  ?"  It  was  true  that  Philip  himself 
was  by  no  means  certain  of  the  reality  of  Baretta's  pretensions, 
but  he  was  nevertheless  inclined,  curiously  enough,  to  admit 
them  to  others. 

"  Oh,  it  all  seems  to  be  plain  enough ;  but  you  can't  always 
tell.  I  myself  don't  think  much  of  barons  when  they  come  from 
the  slums.  Besides,  the  fellow  is  a  cad." 

"  That's  a  little  harsh." 

"  Don't  think  I  blame  a  man  for  being  poor,  Yates.  But  I'll 
tell  you  why  I  think  he's  a  cad.  Oh,  I  dare  say  he's  forgotten 
her  now — he  acted  as  if  he  were  ashamed  of  her  then." 

179 


"  Her !"  exclaimed  Yates.     "  Whom  do  you  mean  by  her  ?" 

"  She  was  rather  a  pretty  girl,  too — Miss  Dolan.  You  should 
have  heard  how  he  mumbled  the  name  when  I  met  him  on  the 
street-car  with  her.  But  she  wasn't  ashamed  of  it,  not  much. 
Oh,  of  course,  she  was  a  common  sort  of  girl,  but  then  a  fellow 
has  no  right  to  act  like  a  cad." 

"  Dolan — oh  yes,"  murmured  Philip.  He  recollected  now  the 
words  which  Baretta's  landlord  had  let  drop  about  his  "  gyurl  " 
that  evening  at  the  Socialist  Club. 

"  Have  you  seen  her?"  asked  Mr.  Allen.  "Well,  you  know, 
it  was  amusing  the  way  he  behaved — immensely  amusing.  It's 
really  too  good  a  story  to  keep;  I  must  tell  Mrs.  Chilton  about  it." 

"  No,  don't  do  that,"  said  Philip,  quickly.  Then,  as  Mr.  Allen 
stared  at  him,  he  added,  "  Of  course,  you  know,  it's  none  of  my 
business,  but  I  rather  pity  the  poor  devil,  after  all." 

"  Pity  him  !     He  wouldn't  thank  you  for  that." 

"  I  dare  say  not.  Perhaps  I  don't  pity  him.  Did  you  say 
that  Mrs.  Cadwallader  had  asked  for  me?" 

And  in  truth  Baretta  would  have  been  very  much  surprised 
to  be  told  that  any  one  thought  of  pitying  him.  He  had  begun 
to  think  of  himself  as  a  person  to  be  greatly  envied.  There  was 
a  great  difference  between  the  friendless  young  man  who  had 
lived  in  Arragon  Street,  and  the  heir  to  a  title  and  estates,  whom 
a  great  lady  like  Mrs.  Cadwallader  had  invited  to  her  house. 
Perhaps  he  exaggerated  Mrs.  Cadwallader's  social  importance 
somewhat,  as  he  had  Mrs.  Chilton's ;  but  there  was  no  doubt  of 
its  reality  and  of  its  value  to  an  outsider.  When  Lord  Shet- 
land came  up  and  shook  hands  with  him  he  felt  that  he  was  in- 
deed being  recognized  by  his  own  order;  he  had  almost  de- 
ceived himself,  it  will  be  observed,  in  trying  to  deceive  others  ; 
the  days  of  his  association  with  Ditton  and  with  Maud  Dolan 
already  seemed  to  belong  to  a  remote  past,  with  which  Baron 
Smolzow  had  nothing  to  do.  A  glimpse  of  Yates  making  his 
way  slowly  through  the  crowd,  however,  reminded  him  that 
there  was  one  link  connecting  him  with  that  past  which  he 
could  not  break.  But  he  ignored  the  unwelcome  suggestion, 
and  put  out  his  hand  with  a  rather  condescending  smile.  "Ah, 
Yates,"  he  said.  "  How  did  you  like  it?" 

180 


"  Like  it  ?  Oh,  the  lecture  ?"  replied  Philip.  Something  in 
Baretta's  manner  annoyed  him.  "  It  was  very  well,"  he  added, 
"  though  of  course  you  can't  expect  me  to  believe  what  you 
said." 

"  I  think  I  shall  make  converts,  however,"  Baretta  said,  airily. 
"  His  lordship  congratulated  me." 

"  Who  the  deuce  are  you  talking  about  ?     Lord  Shetland  ?" 

"  Oh,  is  that  what  you  call  him  ?"  asked  Baretta,  scowling. 
"  Well,  how  can  I  be  expected  to  know  all  these  things  ?  Of 
course,  it's  very  kind  of  you  to  tell  me.  I  haven't  had  your 
advantages." 

"  See  here,  Baretta,  you'd  oblige  me  infinitely  if  you  would 
drop  that  rot.  I  didn't  intend  to  be  rude — if  you  mean  that. 
And  as  for  advantages — why,  what  more  could  a  man  want  than 
you  have  now  ?" 

"  Oh,  now  !  Well,  perhaps  I  have  a  chance.  But  the  least  I 
ought  to  do  is  to  thank  you  for  having  brought  me  here — for 
having  introduced  me  to  Mrs.  Cadwallader." 

"Don't  thank  me  !"  cried  Philip,  sharply,  recalling  what  Miss 
Linley  had  said  about  Mrs.  Cadwallader  holding  him  responsible. 
"  She  asked  me  to  bring  you." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  put  you  to  so  much  trouble,"  retorted 
Baretta.  He  was  wondering  if  Yates  was  in  a  bad  temper  be- 
cause he  envied  him  his  present  importance.  He  could  quite 
understand  why  this  should  be  the  case.  Yates  had  always 
looked  down  upon  him,  and  no  doubt  it  was  galling  to  have  to 
treat  him  as  an  equal. 

"Come,  Baretta,  don't  be  absurd,"  was  all  Philip  said.  Then 
some  one  came  up,  and  he  moved  on  to  find  his  hostess. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  are  here,"  said  Mrs.  Cadwallader.  "I  want 
to  talk  to  you.  Don't  hurry  away — stay  and  dine  with  us." 

"Thank  you.  That  is  an  invitation  which  you  know  I  cannot 
resist." 

"  What  did  you  think  of  the  lecture  ?  It  struck  me  as  very 
absurd,"  she  went  on.  "The  only  thing  that  pleased  me  was 
that  Mr.  Pinkerton  didn't  like  it." 

"  From  which  I  gather  that  you  don't  like  Mr.  Pinkerton  ?" 

"  I  detest  him  !  It's  awful  to  talk  that  way  about  a  man  when 

181 


he's  in  your  own  house.     But  I  excuse  myself  by  reflecting  that 
I  didn't  ask  him." 

"  I  admire  his  coolness  in  asking  himself." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Mrs.  Cadwallader,  smiling,  "  perhaps  I  am 
unjust  to  Albert  Hazard.  You  know  he  gave  a  Browning  read- 
ing here  once,  and  ever  since  then  he  has  taken  it  for  granted 
that  he  may  come.  And,  indeed,  why  shouldn't  he  ?  I  can't 
tell  him  that  I  don't  like  him.  In  fact,  I  wouldn't  dare  to  do 
so.  I  know  it's  very  foolish,  but  I  should  hate  to  have  him  put 
me  into  those  '  Social  Sketches '  of  his.  He's  a  dreadfully  ill- 
natured  person  if  you  offend  him." 

"  It's  a  pleasant  way  he  has,  isn't  it  ? — to  go  to  people's  houses 
and  then  satirize  them  in  the  society  papers." 

"  Mr.  Cadwallader  detests  him  worse  than  I  do.  He  is  actually 
rude  to  him." 

"  I  can  quite  sympathize  with  Mr.  Cadwallader,"  said  Yates. 
"  And  so  poor  Baretta  will  be  the  next  victim,  will  he  ?" 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  I  couldn't  say.     Mr.  Pinkerton  simply  con-    * 
fided  to  me  that  the  lecture  was  '  awful  rot.'    But  I  should  think 
that  Mr.  Baretta — oughtn't  I  to  call  him  Baron  Smolzow  ? — was 
very  clever." 

"  Clever  ?  I  dare  say  he's  clever  enough.  It's  exceedingly 
kind  of  him,  anyway,  to  give  us  all  fair  warning  before  he  blows 
us  up  with  dynamite  or  murders  us  in  our  beds.  But  you  mustn't 
ask  me  about  him — you  must  judge  for  yourself." 

"  Oh,  I  can't  do  that ;  I  shall  have  to  take  your  word  for  it. 
One  mustn't  inquire  too  curiously,  I  suppose,  when  so  famous  a 
person  is  concerned." 

"  It  is  kind  of  you  to  have  him  here — it  will  be  a  great  help 
to  him." 

"  Perhaps  he  may  not  think  so.  You  see,  in  a  republican 
country  we  are  dreadfully  fond  of  an  aristocracy.  Do  you  think 
that  Mr.  Baretta — really,  it  is  so  hard  to  call  him  anything  else 
— will  get  those  estates,  as  well  as  the  title  ?" 

"  Those  estates  ?"  said  Philip.  "  Do  you  mean  his  castle  in 
Spain  ?" 

Mrs.  Cadwallader  laughed,  but  he  afterwards  reproached  him- 
self with  being  ungenerous  to  Baretta.  It  was  no  affair  of  his 

182 


whether  the  young  man's  sudden  elevation  was  based  on  a  de- 
lusion or  not.  His  question  had  been  more  a  protest  against 
being  held  responsible  than  anything  else.  He  had  been  amused 
by  Baretta's  flamboyant  Socialism  in  the  early  days  of  their  ac- 
quaintance, even  although  at  the  same  time  he  was  impressed  by 
the  sincerity  of  it.  But  Baretta  as  Baron  Smolzow  seemed  to  be 
part  of  a  masquerade,  and  not  sincere  at  all.  Philip's  indigna- 
tion may  have  been  heightened  by  the  reflection  that  the  part 
was  being  played  on  the  same  stage  with  Mildred  Lawrence. 
He  saw  that  she  was  talking  with  Baretta  now,  and  he  stepped 
into  the  adjoining  room  in  order  to  avoid  recognition.  He  was 
sure  that  she  did  not  know  he  was  there,  and  he  wished  to  spare 
her  even  the  annoyance  of  finding  it  out.  But  the  very  first 
person  he  met  as  he  drew  back  the  portiere  was  Mildred's 
father. 

"  Ah,  Yates,"  said  that  gentleman,  beaming  cordially  upon 
him.  "  What  a  great  stranger  you  are  !" 

"  I— oh,  yes — how  do  you  do,  Mr.  Lawrence  ?"  stammered 
Philip. 

"  Now  this  is  really  a  delightful  occasion,  isn't  it  ?"  There 
was  absolutely  no  constraint  in  Mr.  Lawrence's  manner.  Possi- 
bly the  unimportant  fact  that  this  young  man's  engagement  with 
his  daughter  had  been  broken  off,  and  that  the  two  were  no 
longer  on  speaking  terms,  had  quite  escaped  his  memory.  "  Our 
friend  Baretta  has  done  very  well — very  well  indeed.  Of  course, 
you  know,  I  don't  agree  with  him  ;  he  carries  his  theories  a  little 
too  far — just  a  little  too  far.  But  when  you  come  to  think  of 
it,  there's  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  what  he  says,  after  all.  No 
doubt  our  society  needs  reorganization,  eh  ?" 

"  Reorganization  is  a  rather  mild  word  for  revolution,  isn't  it, 
sir  ?"  asked  Philip,  who  had  regained  in  some  measure  his  self- 
control. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  our  friend  is  exactly  a  revolutionist.  Per- 
haps he  says  just  a  little  more  than  he  means.  I  dare  say  that 
his  new  position  in  the  world  will  sober  him.  He's  been  very 
modest  about  it — that's  one  thing  I  like  in  him.  He  never 
boasted  about  his  family.  In  fact,  you  know,  I  took  him  at 
first  for  one  of  a  far  different  class.  He  used  to  come  to  our 

183 


Union,  you  know.  A  most  intelligent  young  man — a  most  clever 
young  man." 

"  I  dare  say,"  observed  Philip,  rather  dejectedly. 

"  Don't  you  find  his  conversation  remarkably  interesting  ?" 

*'  Yes — oh,  of  course.  I — I  suppose  you  see  a  good  deal  of 
him  ?" 

"  Well,  we  have  been  away  all  summer,  you  know.  But,  as  I 
said,  we  take  a  great  interest  in  him." 

Philip  studied  the  pattern  of  the  rug  on  which  he  was  stand- 
ing intently  a  moment  before  he  spoke  again.  "  Ah,  that  is  quite 
natural,"  he  said  at  last.  He  felt  that  it  was  a  banal  remark,  but 
no  other  occurred  to  him.  Perhaps  he  was  thinking  how  bit- 
ter a  thing  it  is  to  look  into  happiness  through  another  man's 
eyes. 

Mr.  Lawrence  waited  a  moment  to  see  if  he  had  anything  fur- 
ther to  say,  and  then,  finding  he  had  not,  moved  on  with  a  bland 
bow.  He  must  have  had  the  impression,  however,  that  Yates, 
and  not  himself,  had  done  most  of  the  talking ;  for  when  he 
drifted  back  into  the  next  room  and  found  his  daughter  still 
with  Baretta,  he  plunged  into  the  conversation  by  saying,  "  Oh, 
you  have  made  a  great  hit — a  great  hit.  Yates  has  just  been 
talking  about  it — you  know  Philip  Yates  ?  He  has  a  high  opin- 
ion of  you ;  he  thinks  you're  immensely  clever." 

Mildred  flushed  crimson,  the  more  as  she  felt  that  Baretta's 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  with  an  inquiring  gaze — an  impertinent 
one,  she  thought  it. 

"  Oh,  does  he  ?"  asked  Baretta.  "  That's  exceedingly  kind  of 
him." 

Mildred  looked  up  suddenly  and  detected  the  sneer  which 
played  about  his  lips  as  he  spoke.  But  still  she  said  nothing. 

"  He's  clever  himself,"  said  Mr.  Lawrence.  "  His  praise  is 
worth  something." 

"  No  doubt,  Mr.  Lawrence,  no  doubt,"  said  the  young  man, 
hastily.  "  Oh  yes,  I  have  known  Yates  very  well.  I  like  him ; 
I  think  he  will  succeed — some  day.  But  I  fancied  that  you 
thought — that  you  would  not  care — "  He  felt  that  Miss  Lawrence 
was  staring  at  him  haughtily,  and  that,  singularly  enough,  she 
was  not  pleased  with  this  depreciation  of  the  man  who  had  be- 

184 


haved  so  badly  to  her.     He  was  quite  convinced  that  Yates  had 
behaved  badly. 

"  Every  one  is  saying  the  same  thing ;  every  one  is  delighted  ;" 
observed  Mr.  Lawrence,  beginning  to  understand  that  his  allu- 
sion to  Yates  had  been  unfortunate.  "  You  will  be  quite  the 
lion  of  the  hour — I  really  think  you  will.  But  I  want  to  have 
a  long  talk  with  you.  Come  home  and  dine  with  us." 

"  1 — I  thank  you,"  stammered  Baretta.  "  If — if  you  are  sure 
it  will  be  convenient — if  Miss  Lawrence — "  he  added,  turning  to 
Mildred. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  dine  out  to-night,  Mr.  Baretta,"  said 
that  young  lady,  coldly.  "  But  I  am  sure  that  my  father  will  be 
glad  of  your  company." 

She  nodded  rather  stiffly  and  turned  to  speak  to  Miss  Tred- 
well,  who  had  just  tapped  her  on  the  shoulder  and  whispered  a 
word  in  her  ear.  Baretta  felt  that  he  hated  Miss  Tredwell,  and 
he  scowled  at  her  as  she  drew  Miss  Lawrence  away.  "  You're 
very  kind,  Mr.  Lawrence  ;  I'll  come  with  pleasure,"  he  said.  But 
there  was  not  much  pleasure  in  his  look."  He  suspected  that 
Miss  Lawrence's  engagement  to  dine  out  had  been  very  hastily 
made. 

185 


CHAPTER  XIX 
AN   UNEXPECTED  VISITOR 

NEVERTHELESS,  Baretta  came  away  from  Mrs.  Cadwallader's 
in  high  spirits.  The  incense  of  flattery  was  very  exhilarating, 
and  he  had  enjoyed  a  great  deal  of  it.  He  had  always  felt  con- 
fident that  he  would  succeed,  but  the  realization  of  his  hopes 
was  even  beyond  expectation.  He  did  not  question  the  genuine- 
ness of  the  polite  applause  which  followed  his  lecture.  He  was 
sure  that  all  these  people  were  immensely  interested  in  what  he 
had  to  say,  because  they  were  immensely  interested  in  him. 
The  rebuff  that  he  had  received  from  Mildred  Lawrence  made 
him  very  angry  for  the  moment.  Afterwards  he  was  rather  in- 
clined to  pity  her  for  not  appreciating  his  society  at  its  true 
value.  The  day  would  come,  he  told  himself,  when  she  would 
be  proud  to  know  him.  Baron  Smolzow  was  a  very  different 
person  from  Francis  Baretta.  As  for  that  impertinent  Miss 
Tredwell,  he  would  get  even  with  her  yet.  She  was  a  friend  of 
Yates — he  had  seen  them  talking  together — and  of  course  she 
was  his  enemy.  He  had  told  Yates  that  he  ought  to  thank  him 
for  his  introduction  to  Mrs.  Cadwallader ;  but  in  truth  he  was 
not  in  the  least  grateful.  He  was  no  longer  in  a  position  where 
he  could  be  patronized  by  anybody.  He  was  not  the  unknown 
adventurer  who  had  thought  it  a  great  thing  to  be  asked  to  one 
of  Mrs.  Chilton's  afternoons.  Just  now  he  was  flying  for  higher 
game  than  that. 

Mrs.  Cadwallader  had  been  very  gracious  when  he  called  with 
Yates,  and  he  soon  felt  quite  at  his  ease  with  her,  in  spite  of 
what  had  seemed  to  him  the  oppressive  elegance  of  her  sur- 
roundings. In  the  necessities  of  his  early  training  the  aesthetic 

186 


side  of  his  nature  had  been  somewhat  neglected,  and  all  these 
screens  and  easels  and  vases  and  scarfs  and  draperies  had  some- 
what bewildered  him.  The  difference  between  the  life  which  he 
had  led  and  the  life  which  he  wanted  to  lead  had  never  before 
impressed  him  so  strongly.  He  saw  now  how  many  things  of 
which  the  dwellers  in  Arragon  Street  knew  nothing  were  re- 
garded as  necessities  in  the  great  world — how  that  world  had 
an  atmosphere  of  its  own  which  one  must,  as  it  were,  learn  to 
breathe.  He  felt  that  his  perception  of  life  had  been  immensely 
enlarged  by  his  appreciation  of  this  fact ;  if  the  finer  distinc- 
tions, the  smaller  details,  were  still  vaguely  outlined  in  his  mind, 
that  was  because  he  had  not  yet  had  time  to  study  them.  That 
time  was  all  he  needed  he  did  not  doubt.  While  Mrs.  Cadwal- 
lader  and  Yates  talked  he  listened  intently,  although  he  found 
many  of  their  allusions  incomprehensible.  It  seemed  to  him,  as 
he  thought  it  over  afterwards,  that  they  had  talked  nothing  but 
nonsense ;  which  was  an  easy  way  to  dismiss  things  one  did  not 
understand.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Cadwallader  even  found  her  Socialist 
baron  a  rather  stupid  lion,  and  began  to  doubt  whether  she  had 
done  wisely  in  asking  Yates  to  lead  him  into  the  arena.  Baretta 
came  away,  however,  feeling  that  he  had  at  least  made  no 
blunder,  and  was  slighty  patronizing  to  Yates,  as  a  man  who  was 
gotting  on  had  a  right  to  be  to  a  man  who  amounted  to  nothing  in 
particular.  Yates,  indeed,  bade  him  good-bye  rather  curtly,  and 
did  not  offer  to  take  him  to  any  more  of  the  "  best  houses,"  an 
omission  which,  after  all,  was  not  a  serious  one  now.  Baretta 
went  again  to  see  Mrs.  Cadwallader,  alone  this  time,  and  made  a 
much  better  impression.  He  talked  about  himself,  a  subject 
upon  which  he  was  always  eloquent,  and  of  his  work  and  his 
economic  ideas — things  which  Mrs.  Cadwallader  found  enter- 
taining because  of  their  novelty.  Therefore  she  concluded  that 
this  new  lion  would  roar  loudly  enough  for  a  single  season,  and 
that  she  might  ask  people  to  come  and  hear  him.  In  le  monde 
ou  Von  s'ennuie  anything  that  promises  a  sensation  is  not  to 
be  lightly  spurned.  Her  decision  was  a  great  piece  of  good- 
fortune  for  Baretta,  although,  perhaps,  he  did  not  appreciate  it 
fully.  There  were  plenty  of  houses  where  even  less  conspicu- 
ous persons  than  he  were  welcome,  and  to  go  to  which  conferred 

187 


the  immortality  of  newspaper  paragraphs.  Mrs.  Chilton,  for 
example,  represented  one  social  cult.  But  at  Mrs.  Cadwal- 
lader's  alone  Society  and  Upper  Bohemia  met  on  common 
ground.  She  had  the  gift  of  reconciling  these  usually  jarring 
elements.  There  were  those  of  greater  consequence  than  Albert 
Hazard  Pinkerton  or  Georgiana  Linley  who  came  to  hear  him 
talk  about  Socialism.  He  did  not  quite  recognize  this  fact  at 
the  time,  although  he  was  duly  impressed  at  meeting  the  son  of 
a  marquis ;  he  had  not  been  a  baron  long  enough  to  treat  titles 
as  familiar  things. 

The  company  this  afternoon  was  composed  of  rather  more 
miscellaneous  elements  than  usual,  and  Baretta  had  compar- 
atively scant  opportunities  of  making  new  acquaintances.  Talk- 
ing to  people  one  didn't  know  was  still  a  difficult  task ;  indeed, 
it  was  the  apparent  informality  of  the  very  formalities  of  society 
which  perplexed  him  most.  Of  course  one  could  brush  such 
things  aside  as  foolish,  and  take  refuge  in  the  reflection  that 
reorganized  humanity  would  not  want  them ;  still,  that  was  not 
very  satisfactory  as  a  temporary  expedient.  Baretta  wandered 
off  into  a  corner  after  he  had  accepted  Mr.  Lawrence's  invitation 
to  dinner,  and  glared  unamiably  at  the  swaying  and  murmuring 
throng  as  it  swept  by.  One  has  lonely  moments  even  when  one 
is  getting  on  in  the  world  and  has  become  a  lion,  or  perhaps  a 
whelp  that  promises  to  be  a  lion  some  day.  Baretta  was  not 
sorry  presently  to  see  drifting  in  his  direction  Mr.  Hamilton 
Wreath,  whom  he  had  met  at  Mrs.  Chilton's,  and  whom  he  re- 
membered as  being  interested  in  Socialism  from  a  realistic  point 
of  view.  He  observed  that  Mr.  Wreath  still  wore  the  frock- 
coat  and  white  tie  that  Mr.  Allen  had  made  fun  of,  but  he 
fancied  that  the  hair  and  beard  of  the  great  realistic  author 
were  less  unkempt  than  usual.  Mr.  Wreath  had  eyes  of  peculiar 
brightness,  and  a  habit  of  fixing  them  very  intently  upon  any 
one  with  whom  he  talked ;  for  which  he  would  apologize  by 
saying  that  he  was  a  student  of  human  nature,  and  that  to 
portray  it  accurately  one  must  observe  it  closely.  He  fixed  his 
eyes  upon  Baretta  now  with  something  of  the  air  of  one  who 
has  discovered  a  new  specimen. 

"  You  have  had  great  opportunities,  Baron,"  said  Mr.  Wreath, 

188 


placing  one  hand  in  the  breast  of  his  tightly  buttoned  coat  and 
brushing  back  his  black  locks  with  the  other.  "  I  dare  say  they 
have  given  you  a  sense  of  consecration  to  the  cause  of  suffering 
humanity.  Ah,  that  is  what  we  all — those  of  us  who  ponder 
deeply  upon  the  underlying  principles  of  life — all  have  deeply 
at  heart.  I  recognize  you  as  a  coworker,  Baron." 

"Oh  !"  exclaimed  Baretta,  scowling  slightly.  "  I  didn't  know 
that  you  had  done  any  practical  work  in  that  direction." 

"  Practical — ah,  practical !"  said  Mr.  Wreath  with  a  depreca- 
tory smile.  "  That  is  a  word  which  means  so  much — or  so 
little." 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  To  any  one 
who  understands  what  the  condition  of  the  poor  in  our  large 
cities  is  there  isn't  any  doubt  of  the  way  to  set  at  work  to  help 
them." 

"  Are  you  so  certain  of  that  ?  It's  an  interesting  point :  you 
will  see  how  I  have  worked  it  out  in  my  new  story,  if  you  will 
take  the  trouble  to  read  it.  I  have  called  it  '  Jared  Evans,  an 
Every-day  Man ' — it  is  studied  from  life,  I  assure  you.  Oh,  I 
walked  up  and  down  a  place  called  Arragon  Street  a  half  an 
hour,  to  get  the  local  colour." 

"  Arragon  Street !"  Baretta  could  not  help  exclaiming. 

"Oh,  do  you  know  it?  Of  course,  of  course  —  your  work 
must  have  taken  you  there  at  some  time.  Well,  now,  I  tried  to 
fancy  what  lives  those  people  must  lead — what  wretched  lives, 
full  of  misery  and  filth  and  sin.  Ah  !  ah  !"  wailed  Mr.  Wreath, 
lifting  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling,  "  my  heart  bleeds  for  them — it 
does  indeed." 

Baretta  scowled  again.     "  That's  exceedingly  kind  of  you." 

"  Now  why,"  continued  Mr.  Wreath — "  why  should  not  my 
story  be  as  practical  as  your  work  ?  It  attracts  the  attention  of 
the  public — that's  the  main  thing.  One  who  reads  it  cannot 
help  feeling  that  it  is  terribly  true.  There's  no  romantic  non- 
sense about  it.  The  New  Art,  of  which  I,  as  well  as  Mr.  Nowells, 
am  proud  to  call  myself  a  disciple,  sticks  to  the  hard,  grim,  un- 
compromising truth.  In  fact,  I  think  I  go  rather  beyond  Mr. 
Nowells.  You  won't  find  any  flowers  of  fancy,  any  mere  orna- 
mentation of  style,  in  '  Jared  Evans.'  Oh,  it  has  made  an  im- 

189 


mensc  sensation ;  people  see  in  it  the  dawn  of  a  new  literary 
era.  Isn't  that  the  case,  Mr.  Black  ?"  added  the  novelist,  turn- 
ing to  a  tall  young  man  with  a  languid  and  somewhat  supercil- 
ious air,  who  was  drifting  by.  "  This  is  ray  friend  Mr.  Black, 
the  eminent  critic,  Baron  Smolzow.  I  dare  say  you  have  read 
that  charming  department  of  his  in  the  Massachusetts  Magazine 
— '  In  an  Attic  at  Podsnap's.'  No  ?  Oh,  you  must  read  it." 

"  Mr.  Wreath  flatters  me,"  said  Mr.  Black. 

"  No,  no  ;  I  am  not  the  only  one  who  appreciates  your  talents 
highly,"  protested  Mr.  Wreath.  "  Our  hostess  admires  your 
work.  '  Do  you  know  Mr.  Black — Mr.  V.  Hartburn  Black  ? 
You  must  bring  him  with  you  to  hear  Baron  Smolzow ' — those 
were  her  very  words." 

"Oh,  I  dare  say  I  sometimes  manage  to  shine  a  little  by  re- 
flected light  from  Mr.  Wreath."  The  eminent  critic's  manner 
was  more  complacent  than  his  words,  and  he  looked  at  Baretta 
as  if  he  expected  to  be  contradicted.  But  as  Baretta  said  noth- 
ing he  went  on :  "  Perhaps  you  are  not  interested  in  the  New 
Art — and,  if  I  may  say  so,  in  the  New  Criticism.  You  should 
be ;  one  with  your  practical  knowledge  of  the  dark  problems  of 
life  would  find  our  way  of  dealing  with  them  immensely  sugges- 
tive. Our  friend  Wreath,  now — you  might  call  him  the  apostle 
of  scientific  realism  in  literature.  His  stories  do  not  aim  simply 
to  amuse ;  they  are  practical  disquisitions  in  sociology.  That 
is  the  truth  I  am  trying  in  my  poor  way  to  impress  upon  the 
public  ;  but  the  public,  alas  !  is  a  stupid  animal." 

"  Very  likely,"  admitted  Baretta.  "  But  all  this  sort  of  thing 
seems  to  me  like  child's  play.  What  do  your  millionaires  care 
for  the  struggling  masses  so  long  as  they  have  the  power  ?  And 
what  good  can  a  little  cheap  philanthropy  do,  anyway  ?  No  ;  the 
millions  must  do  something  more  than  complain  ;  they  must 
make  themselves  felt ;  they  must  say,  '  We  are  the  masters  and 
you  are  our  servants.'  Then  they  will  accomplish  something." 

"  That  is  all  very  well,"  said  Mr.  Wreath.  "  But  if  my  stories 
don't  do  any  good,  what  will  your  lectures  amount  to  ?" 

"  I  didn't  come  here  to  be  insulted  !"  cried  Baretta,  angrily. 
He  hesitated  a  moment,  glaring  at  the  offending  novelist  with 
something  of  the  look  of  a  wild  animal.  "  I  guess  I've  had 

190 


enough  of  you,"  he  added,  curtly,  turning  his  back  and  walking 
away. 

Mr.  Wreath  looked  at  Mr.  Black  and  Mr.  Black  looked  at  Mr. 
Wreath.  "  Well !"  exclaimed  the  critic. 

"  He'll  do  for  my  next  story,"  said  the  novelist. 

"What  can  you  expect  of  a  fellow  from  the  slums?"  asked 
Mr.  Black. 

Baretta  felt  that  he  had  made  a  mistake,  and  he  blamed  him- 
self for  losing  his  temper.  No  man  could  afford  to  make  ene- 
mies unnecessarily.  After  all,  why  should  he  have  resented  so 
bitterly  what  was  at  most  a  slight  impertinence  ?  Somehow  or 
other  it  took  very  little  to  upset  him  in  these  days ;  his  nerves 
seemed  to  be  getting  altogether  beyond  his  control.  It  must  be 
that  his  changed  fortunes  had  unsettled  him. 

And  how  greatly,  how  very  greatly,  they  had  changed  ?  lie 
thought  of  this  as  he  walked  home  to  Manchester  Square  that 
evening  after  dining  with  Mr.  Lawrence.  He  got  away  from 
Mrs.  Cadwallader's  a  little  before  six,  flattered  to  the  top  of  his 
bent  by  congratulations  the  sincerity  of  which  he  did  not  ques- 
tion. Why  should  he  ?  Did  not  he  himself  know  better  than 
any  one  else  how  well  deserved  they  were  ?  His  moral  propor- 
tions were  coming  to  be  truly  heroic  in  his  own  eyes.  How 
much  he  had  sacrificed  for  the  welfare  of  humanity  !  Baretta 
was  honestly  beginning  to  believe  this ;  so  much  depends  upon 
the  point  of  view.  He  kept  projecting  his  present  into  his  past, 
as  it  were,  and  thinking  of  the  Francis  Baretta  who  had  lived  m 
Arragon  Street  as  the  Baron  Smolzow  who  delivered  lectures  on 
Socialism  in  Mrs.  Cadwallader's  drawing-room ;  by  which  means 
the  old  associations  took  on  as  much  incongruity  m  reminiscence 
as  they  would  have  had  now  if  they  had  never  been  broken  off. 
It  was  Baron  Smolzow  who  had  thought  of  marrying  Maud  Do- 
Ian  because  he  was  not  good  enough  for  Mildred  Lawrence — 
Baron  Smolzow,  who  had  all  Boston  at  his  feet  (this  was  his 
somewhat  exaggerated  way  of  putting  it),  and  who  was  good 
enough  for  anybody.  He  had  assumed  the  title  without  contra- 
diction, although  he  had  not  yet  established  any  legal  claim. 
Those  proofs  which  the  editor  of  the  Mail  had  said  he  ought 
to  have  were  still  missing.  He  had  made  his  existence  known 

191 


to  the  Austrian  Government  through  the  United  States  Legation 
at  Vienna,  and  the  correspondent  of  the  Banner,  who  had  writ- 
ten that  glowing  account  of  the  estates  at  Bataszek,  was  most 
earnest  in  his  endeavours  to  impress  the  official  mind  with  the 
credibility  of  the  coincidence.  But  there  was  an  anxiety  to  trace 
the  history  of  Paul  Baretta  after  his  flight  from  Hungary  in  1848, 
with  which  the  Banner  correspondent  did  not  sympathize,  but 
which  interfered  with  any  official  recognition  of  the  claims  of 
his  putative  son.  The  amiable  advocate  who  represented  the 
noble  house  of  Smolzow  smiled  when  he  was  told  that  the  claim- 
ant had  already  assumed  the  title,  but  declared  that,  although 
this  could  not  be  helped,  the  property  most  certainly  would  not 
be  given  up  by  the  next  of  kin  on  the  strength  of  a  mere  asser- 
tion. Perhaps  the  breezy  letter  in  the  Banner  on  the  stupidity 
of  foreigners,  particularly  Austrians,  will  be  recalled  by  some 
readers ;  it  was  widely  copied  by  the  American  press,  and  was 
the  subject  of  editorial  comment  in  several  journals  from  the 
Jacksonville  Clarion  to  the  Los  Angeles  Eagle.  However,  all 
the  satire  in  the  world  could  not  advance  the  case  of  Baron  Smol- 
zow a  single  jot.  The  proofs  were  still  wanting.  Baretta  had 
come  so  near  to  believing  in  his  own  pretensions  that  he  was 
actually  angry  to  think  that  his  father  had  been  so  careless.  His 
father!  Perhaps  his  father  might  be  alive,  and  might  be  able 
to  give  him  some  information  which  would  be  of  service  to  him. 
He  really  could  not  think  that  there  was  no  connection  whatever 
between  the  Hungarian  noble  and  the  Hungarian  barber  of  the 
same  name,  who  had  both  come  to  America  in  1848.  But  he 
shrank  from  trying  to  find  a  relative  of  whom  his  recollections 
were  not  pleasant,  and  who  he  was  sure  would  be  no  credit  to 
him  now.  Once  or  twice  desperate  suggestions  of  devising  false 
documents  crossed  his  mind  ;  but  he  rejected  them,  not  so  much 
from  any  moral  scruples,  as  because  in  his  ignorance  of  what 
such  documents  ought  to  be  he  was  fearful  of  committing  some 
gross  and  fatal  blunder  which  would  at  once  expose  him  as  a 
pretender.  No  one  could  call  him  that  so  long  as  he  was  con- 
tent simply  to  say,  "  I  am  the  son  of  Paul  Baretta,  and  if  I  am 
not  Baron  Smolzow,  who  is  ?"  Such  a  position  was  unassailable, 
and  he  felt  that  he  was  wise  in  sticking  to  it. 

192 


At  the  same  time  this  young  man,  who  was  getting  on  so  rap- 
idly in  the  world,  had  other  problems  to  consider.  It  was  all 
very  well  to  deliver  lectures  in  drawing-rooms  and  write  for  the 
newspapers ;  but,  after  all,  these  were  not  fitting  avocations  for 
a  scion  of  the  noble  house  of  Smolzow.  He  had,  indeed,  an- 
other object  in  view,  although  he  was  chary  of  admitting  it  even 
to  himself.  This  was  to  marry  Mildred  Lawrence.  Once  he  had 
realized  that  such  an  ambition  was  in  the  highest  degree  pre- 
sumptuous. She  was  out  of  his  star,  and  he  could  only  worship 
her  in  silent  adoration.  But  now  everything  was  changed.  Why 
was  not  he  an  equal  match  for  her,  at  least  so  far  as  the  world 
knew  ?  That  the  world  did  not  know  the  truth  was  a  very  potent 
factor  in  the  situation ;  but  he  disregarded  it  and  never  once  re- 
proached himself  with  doing  anything  dishonourable.  He  was 
aware  of  a  certain  coldness  in  Miss  Lawrence's  manner  for  which 
he  could  not  account ;  but  he  did  not  think  that  it  meant  dis- 
like. Perhaps  some  of  her  friends  were  trying  to  prejudice  her 
against  him.  It  would  be  just  like  that  odious  Miss  Tredwell  to 
try  to  do  something  of  the  kind.  He  felt  an  unreasoning  ani- 
mosity to  Miss  Tredwell,  who  would  no  doubt  think  that  Yates, 
who  was  really  a  very  ordinary  sort  of  fellow,  was  a  better  match 
for  her  friend.  He  was  confident,  however,  that  Mr.  Lawrence 
thought  highly  of  him,  and  would  be  impressed  with  the  honour 
of  having  a  baron  for  a  son-in-law.  After  all,  what  did  these  old 
New  England  families,  with  their  exaggerated  pride  in  their  an- 
cestry, amount  to  ?  Mr.  Lawrence  had  treated  him  quite  as  an 
equal  at  dinner — a  circumstance  which  he  regarded  as  significant, 
because  he  did  not  even  yet  wholly  understand  the  ways  of  gen- 
tlemen. Baretta  still  preached  social  equality,  but  his  manner 
towards  those  whom  he  regarded  as  his  inferiors  was  one  of  con- 
descension. It  never  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  been  at  all 
ungrateful  to  his  old  associates — to  Ditton,  to  Maud  Dolan,  and 
the  rest.  As  for  Ditton,  it  was  he  himself  who  had  brought 
about  the  breach  between  them,  out  of  his  own  petty  jealousy 
and  spite.  He  had  been  a  little  troubled  about  Maud  at  first. 
The  poor  girl  was  certainly  very  fond  of  him,  and  it  seemed 
cruel  to  abandon  her  altogether.  But  then  was  it  not  really  her 
own  fault  ?  Of  course  the  time  must  have  come  when  she  would 

N  193 


see  the  futility  of  expecting  that  he  would  marry  her.  Never- 
theless, he  had  not  intended  to  break  off  their  relations  absolutely. 
He  would  have  been  best  pleased  if  he  had  been  given  an  oppor- 
tunity to  declare  his  willingness  to  sacrifice  himself  for  her.  It 
would  be  a  sacrifice  ;  he  would  have  had  to  admit  that  if  she  had 
asked  him,  and  then  she  would  have  seen  how  impossible  it  was 
that  he  should  make  it.  Maud  had  not  let  him  play  any  such 
role  as  that.  She  had  not  even  attempted  to  keep  him  ;  she  had 
cut  the  tangled  skein  at  a  stroke,  and  had  gone  away  feeling,  no 
doubt,  that  she  had  been  very  badly  used.  He  could  hardly  help 
taking  the  same  view  of  the  case  at  first ;  but  afterwards  he  con- 
vinced himself  that  his  behaviour  had  been  irreproachable,  and 
that  this  abrupt  severance  was  altogether  Maud's  fault.  It  was 
like  a  woman  not  to  give  a  man  any  chance  to  explain.  He  had 
intended  to  see  her  again,  to  set  himself  right  in  her  eyes ;  but 
the  convenient  moment  had  never  come.  Perhaps  it  was  best, 
after  all,  that  they  should  not  meet. 

It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  when  Barctta  ascended  the  stairs  to 
his  room.  When  he  reached  the  landing  he  was  surprised  to  see 
a  light  shining  through  the  chink  under  the  door.  Who  could 
be  calling  upon  him  at  that  hour  ?  and  why  should  his  visitor  be 
waiting?  He  hesitated  a  moment  outside  with  a  curious  sensa- 
tion, half  of  alarm,  half  of  fear.  Pooh  !  He  did  not  believe  in 
presentiments  of  evil,  as  people  called  them.  He  opened  the 
door  and  entered  boldly. 

His  visitor  was  a  stranger — a  man  past  middle  age,  with  long 
gray  hair  and  a  curly  gray  beard.  He  rose  as  Baretta  entered 
and  smiled  blandly.  Baretta  simply  stared  and  did  not  speak. 

"  I  see  you  haf  forgotten  me,"  said  the  man,  smiling  again. 
"  Veil,  it  ees  a  long  time — a  long  time." 

That  voice,  with  its  queer  foreign  accent — was  it  not  familiar  ? 
A  confused  flood  of  memories  seemed  to  surge  through  Baretta's 
brain  as  he  listened.  "  I — I'm  sure  I  don't  remember,"  he  stam- 
mered at  last. 

"  Oh,  ho  !  You  haf  forgotten.  It  was  because  you  veeshed 
to  forget.  You  run  away — you  tink  you  never  see  your  old 
fader  again.  But  here  he  ees  !  I  am  he  !" 

194 


CHAPTER  XX 
A  PLAN  OF  CAMPAIGN 

"You  !"  cried  Baretta,  falling  back  a  step  and  gazing  at  the 
intruder  with  a  look  in  which  scorn  and  fear  were  strangely 
mingled.  "  You  !"  he  repeated,  after  a  moment  of  silence,  dur- 
ing which  his  father's  face  wore  an  expression  of  amused  ex- 
pectancy. "  Why — why,  I  should  never  have  known  you — I  did 
not  think  you  were  living." 

"And  haf  mourned  for  me  bittairely — ees  it  not  so?  Ach! 
ja — I  guess  !"  And  the  unwelcome  visitor  laughed  scornfully. 

"  How  do  I  know  now  that  you  are  my  father  ?"  demanded 
Baretta,  beginning  to  regain  his  self-control,  and  trying  to  meet 
this  unexpected  situation  calmly. 

"  Mein  Sohnf  haf  not  die  Natur  spik  ?"  The  elder  Baretta 
raised  both  arms  with  a  theatrical  air.  "  II  ne  nous  reste  qu'une 
chose  afaire.  Embrassons  nous  /" 

"  What  gibberish  are  you  talking  now  ?"  asked  the  young 
man,  impatiently. 

"  Ah,  you  understand  not  la  langue  Fran$aise?  Verstehst  du 
nicht  Deutsch  !  wie  ? — nur  ein  ivenig  ?  You  haf  neglect  your 
studies — we  shall  haf  to  see  to  those.  And  after  all  dese  years 
you  are  not  glad  to  see  your  fader  !" 

"  I  wish  you  would  talk  sense.  Why  should  I  be  glad  to  see 
you  ?  What  have  you  ever  done  for  me  ?" 

"  You  nefer  gafe  me  the  chance.  You  run  away  at  twelve — 
I  search  and  search,  and  nefer  see  you  more.  But  we  will  for- 
geef  each  other."  Mr.  Baretta  suddenly  sprang  forward  and 
threw  his  arms  about  his  son's  neck.  "  Ah  !  it  brings  tears  to 
the  eyes,  mein  Sokn!" 

195 


Baretta  met  this  paternal  appeal  by  shaking  himself  free  and 
scowling  savagely.  "  Well,  what  do  you  want  of  me  ?"  he  asked, 
throwing  aside  his  hat  and  coat.  "  Because  I  haven't  any  mon- 
ey," he  added. 

"  Money !"  cried  the  other,  angrily.  "  I  ask  you  not  for 
money.  Gott  im  Himmel !  I  come  to  see  you  after  so  long 
years  and  you  tell  me  you  haf  no  money.  Tarn  your  money  !" 

"  Well,  we  can't  do  any  good  by  quarrelling.  If  you  are  my 
father,  and  can  prove  it — " 

"  Prove  it !  prove  it !  Why,  look  here,  do  you  tink  you  can 
peetch  me  ofer  like  dees  ?  Your  face  tells  me  that  you  know 
me — what  proof  need  I  ?" 

And  indeed  to  this  question  Baretta  could  frame  no  answer. 
Why  had  he  not  anticipated  such  an  obvious  emergency  as  this  ? 
He  might  have  known  that  some  time  the  parent  whom  he  had 
abandoned  would  seek  him  out.  He  looked  at  the  old  man — 
his  father  seemed  to  him  to  be  old,  although  he  could  not  have 
been  much  over  sixty — and  wondered  what  his  object  in  coming 
had  been. 

"  So  you  are  a  great  man — Baron  Smolzow !  I  haf  read  it 
all  in  the  papers."  Mr.  Baretta  laughed  again  as  if  the  idea 
were  highly  amusing. 

Baron  Smolzow !  the  name  somehow  recalled  Binney's  re- 
mark about  the  need  of  proofs.  Might  it  not  be  well  for  him, 
after  all,  that  his  father  had  turned  up  just  at  this  crisis  ?  Oh 
no — there  could  be  no  doubt  that  he  was  his  father;  Baretta 
saw  in  his  face,  despite  the  gray  hair  and  beard,  a  dim  reflection 
of  his  own — worn  and  marked  by  years  and  dissipations,  but  still 
his  own.  "  Won't  you  take  a  seat  ?"  he  said  at  last,  more  gen- 
tly than  he  had  yet  spoken.  "  I — I  was  a  little  confused  by  the 
suddenness  of  it  all ;  I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude  to  you." 

"  Ah,  you  are  kind — vous  etes  vraiment  trap  aimable."  Mr. 
Baretta  drew  out  the  only  arm-chair  which  the  room  contained 
and  stretched  himself  at  length  in  it.  "  Je  suis  charme  defaire 
votre  connaissance,  mon  fils.  But  I  forgot — you  spik  only  Eng- 
lish?" He  shook  his  head  with  an  air  of  gentle  melancholy. 
"  You  haf  neglect  so  much ;  you  have  no  kind  fader's  care. 
West  trap  fort" 

196 


"  A  father's  care !"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  scowling. 
"  What  good  would  it  have  been  to  me  ?  I  have  made  my  way 
by  my  own  efforts.  No  one  has  helped  me — no  one.  But  what 
use  is  it  all,"  he  added,  bitterly,  "  if  you  have  come  to  drag  me 
down  at  the  last  ?" 

"  To  drag  you  down  !"  repeated  the  other,  mockingly.  "  I — 
Baron  Smolzow  !  It  ees  your  honour  to  be  my  son." 

"You!"  exclaimed  Baretta.  "Why  do  you  call  yourself 
that  ?" 

"  Ees  it  possible  you  do  not  understand  ?  Pardon,  but  haf 
you  any  veesky  ?  No  ?  It  was  ordered  for  me  by  my  physician 
— but  nefare  mind.  Ah,  Francois,  I  am  a  seeck  man — I  am  not 
long  for  dis  world.  You  hate  me — you  vish  me  tedt.  You  haf 
not  long  to  wait — •eh,  bien  /" 

"  I  don't  wish  you  dead.     Why  should  you  say  that  2" 

"  So  ?  Do  I  mistake  ?  But  you  know,  du  verstehst,  that  you 
cannot  be  the  Herr  Baron  Smolzow  until  I  die.  What !  It  ees 
I,  Paul  Baretta,  who  follows  my  cousin.  Ah,  ah !  It  ees  a 
grandt  day  for  me  after  all  dese  years."  Mr.  Baretta  rose,  smil- 
ing, and  held  out  his  hand.  "  Forget  and  forgif  the  past — you 
vill  not  run  avay  from  your  fader,  der  Herr  Baron — eh  ?" 

"  Damnation  !"  cried  Baretta,  stung  to  sudden  fury  by  what 
seemed  to  him  to  be  his  father's  insolent  air  of  triumph.  He 
saw  in  a  moment  what  a  fool  he  had  been.  Of  course  if  the 
Paul  Baretta  who  came  to  America  in  1848  was  still  alive,  it  was 
he,  and  not  his  son,  who  would  inherit  the  estate.  But  who 
would  have  thought  that  this  drunken  barber — such  was  the 
image  of  his  father  which  Baretta  had  carried  in  his  mind  all 
these  years — would  care  enough  about  an  empty  honour  to  put 
in  a  claim  for  it.  The  young  man  was  sure  that  it  would  be  an 
empty  honour  so  far  as  Paul  Baretta  was  concerned — that  he 
could  not  pass,  as  his  son  could,  for  a  creditable  member  of  the 
Hungarian  nobility.  Very  possibly  he  underrated  his  newly- 
found  parent's  cleverness,  although  he  realized  sufficiently  that 
he  was  clever  enough  to  make  an  uncomfortable  antagonist. 
The  son  walked  up  and  down  the  room  scowling,  while  the  fa- 
ther, still  with  extended  hand,  smiled  blandly.  "  Damnation  !" 
muttered  Baretta  a  second  time. 

197 


"  You  do  not  seem  to  be  gladt,"  observed  Mr.  Baretta.  "  Do 
you  tink  not  to  shake  hands  mit  me,  to  spik  to  me  ?"  He  wait- 
ed for  his  son  to  reply,  but  finding  that  he  said  nothing,  went 
on,  "  You  haf  not  treated  me  as  I  expect,  Francois.  You  haf 
gifen  me  no  velcome — you  show  me  no  affection.  Well — so ! 
I  go  as  I  come.  But  if  I  go,  you  will  nefare  be  Baron  Smolzow 
— nefare  while  I  leef  !" 

Francis  stopped  and  looked  at  his  father  angrily.  "  What  do 
you  mean  by  that  ?" 

"  Ah,  ah  !  you  vill  see — mon  Dieu  !  you  vill  see  !" 

"  Do  you  threaten  me  ?" 

Mr.  Baretta  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  walking  towards  the 
table  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  picked  up  his  hat.  "  You  haf 
no  veesky  ?  Das  thut  mir  leid — it  is  goot  for  my  troat.  Ah,  I 
haf  been  many  times  seeck,  with  no  one  by  to  peety  me."  He 
waved  his  hat  slowly  back  and  forth  with  an  air  of  subdued  mel- 
ancholy. "  My  son — my  only  son — left  me  alone  in  my  old  age 
— I  who  haf  suffaired  so  mooch  !" 

"  Left  you  alone !"  cried  Francis.  "  Where  would  I  have 
been  if  I  had  stayed  with  you  ?" 

"  You  are  ungrateful.  It  ees  the  vicked  son  who  spiks  thus 
to  his  fader."  Mr.  Baretta  put  his  hat  on  his  head  and  folded 
his  arms.  "  But  I  forgeef  you,"  he  added  ;  "I  forgeef  you." 

All  this  was  very  exasperating,  but  it  occurred  to  the  young 
man  that  his  father  was,  in  a  position  to  injure  him  a  good 
deal  if  he  chose,  and  that  however  burdensome  his  presence 
might  be,  it  was  much  more  endurable  than  a  vague  presentiment 
of  evil  in  his  absence.  "  I  do  not  wish  to  treat  you  badly,"  he 
said,  rather  sullenly.  "  Won't  you  sit  down  ?" 

"  Ah,  my  son  !  my  son  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Baretta,  taking  off  his 
hat  and  laying  it  upon  the  table  once  more.  "  I  am  a  foolish 
old  man — I  forget  all  the  past — I  take  you  to  my  heart — if  I 
had  the  veesky  for  my  troat." 

"  See  here — I'll  go  out  and  get  you  some  if  that  is  what  you 
want,  though  I  don't  think  it's  good  for  you.  Will  you  wait 
till  I  come  back  ?" 

"  Oh  yes — I  wait ;  I  am  not  beesy  dese  days."  He  thrust 
his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  drew  out  a  few  coppers.  "  See  ! 

198 


'tis  all  the  geld  I  haf — oh,  I  haf  been  so  seeck — it  was  notings  I 
could  do  to  keep  the  volf  from  the  door." 

"  Well,  I'm  poor  enough,"  said  Baretta,  ungraciously.  Poor ! 
he  muttered  to  himself  when  he  was  in  the  street.  Had  his  fa- 
ther sought  him  out  in  the  hope  that  he  was  rich  and  would  be 
able  to  supply  him  with  the  luxuries  that  a  man  with  more  fond- 
ness for  whiskey  than  for  work  would  expect  ?  If  this  was  his 
object  he  must  be  made  to  see  at  once  how  futile  it  would  be. 
When  a  man  has  no  money  one  certainly  can't  get  money  out 
of  him.  Baretta  thought  that  if  his  father  were  once  made  to 
understand  this  thoroughly  he  might  be  willing  to  go  away  and 
trouble  him  no  more.  What  could  he  gain  by  staying?  This 
was  really  the  important  point,  because  it  was  not  at  all  likely 
that  the  author  of  his  being  had  sought  the  young  man  out 
simply  because  he  was  anxious  to  be  reunited  to  him.  He  had 
had  time  enough  for  that  in  all  these  years,  if  he  had  really 
cared.  It  was  true  enough,  Baretta  told  himself,  that  his  father 
could  annoy  him  a  great  deal.  His  very  existence  in  this  tan- 
gible form  was  a  menace  to  all  his  plans.  Baron  Smolzow ! 
Of  course,  when  you  came  to  think  about  it,  the  title  belonged 
to  the  father  and  not  to  the  son.  Baretta  had  hitherto  thought 
of  his  father  only  as  a  drunken  barber  of  whom  he  was  well  rid ; 
but  he  began  to  suspect  him  of  being  almost  as  clever  as  him- 
self— of  being  able  to  devise  and  carry  through  schemes  in  his 
own  interest.  This  was  a  contingency  which  he  had  not  con- 
templated, and  which  threatened  to  alter  his  position  distinctly 
for  the  worse.  Clever  the  elder  Baretta  might  be,  but  no  one 
would  even  for  a  moment  be  deceived  into  thinking  him  a  gen- 
tleman and  the  heir  of  the  noble  house  of  Smolzow ;  so  that  the 
good  impression  which  the  younger  had  made  would  go  for 
naught,  and  all  his  hopes  of  even  being  a  pretender  to  the  title  and 
estates  would  be  dashed  to  the  ground  at  once.  It  would  be 
maddening  to  fail  on  the  very  threshold  of  success  ;  indeed,  the 
young  man  felt  that  he  could  not  stay  to  face  failure — that  his 
career  would  be  over  as  soon  as  the  blow  fell ;  and  therefore  the 
question  was  how  to  avert  the  blow  altogether.  He  wished  that 
he  could  find  out  exactly  what  his  father's  object  was  in  coming 
to  him.  It  did  not  seem  likely  that  mere  love  of  mischief  had 

199 


impelled  him.  Was  it  to  claim  the  title  ?  Baretta  thought  that 
the  assertion  of  this  right  had  been  made  by  the  elder  man 
chiefly  as  a  threat — that  he  had  no  real  intention  of  trying  to 
make  it  good.  If  this  were  the  case  how  could  he  be  persuaded 
to  keep  out  of  the  way  ?  It  would  be  absurd  to  have  Paul  Ba- 
retta, who  disappeared  from  the  view  of  the  family  of  Smolzow 
so  many  years  ago,  and  whose  own  son  believed  him  dead,  res- 
urrected in  this  sudden  fashion.  Absurd  was  hardly  the  word, 
this  son  thought,  in  view  of  what  it  would  imply.  The  wreck 
of  all  his  aspirations  would  be  tragic. 

There  was  another  way  to  look  at  it — a  way  which  occurred 
to  Baretta  as  he  was  returning  to  Manchester  Square  with  the 
flask  of  whiskey  which  he  had  set  out  to  purchase  for  his  fa- 
ther's immediate  needs.  His  father  might  be  as  well  able  to 
help  him  as  to  ruin  him.  He  thought  again  of  his  need  of 
proofs  to  establish  his  claim  to  the  title  of  Baron  and  the  es- 
tates at  Bataszqk.  Was  it  not  possible  that  Paul  Baretta,  being 
dead,  might  yet  speak  and  divulge  some  information  of  value  to 
his  heir?  That  his  father  was  really  the  cousin  of  the  late 
baron  he  did  not  for  a  moment  believe.  There  had  been  times 
when  he  had  half  persuaded  himself  that  he  was  what  he  im- 
personated— when  he  thought  of  the  deception  which  he  was 
practising  as  a  venial  sin,  as  hardly  a  deception  at  all.  But 
somehow  his  father's  return  had  given  it  an  uglier  aspect.  As 
he  thought  of  gaining  information  from  that  source  he  felt  like 
a  criminal  who  needed  an  accomplice.  "  Why  should  I  struggle 
against  Fate  at  all  ?"  he  asked  himself ;  and  perhaps  for  a  mo- 
ment there  was  a  half-formed  resolution  in  his  mind  to  abandon 
all  that  he  had  been  working  for,  and  to  be  content  with  life 
under  the  old  conditions.  What  was  the  use  of  the  struggle? 
These  people  whose  doors  he  had  begun  to  enter  merely  toler- 
ated him.  Besides,  nothing  that  he  could  do  would  bring  Mil- 
dred Lawrence  any  nearer.  He  had  better  go  back  to  Arragon 
Street  and  to  Maud.  Poor  Maud  !  would  she  forgive  him — 
would  she  tell  him  once  more  that  no  one  could  ever  love 
him  as  she  did?  His  heart  was  torn  with  self-pity  as  he 
realized  that  he  had  really  missed  Maud  during  all  these 
weeks.  Oh  yes — it  would  be  better  for  him  to  go  back !  He 

200 


mounted  the  stairs  to  his  room  again  feeling  curiously  sick  at 
heart. 

"  Ah,  the  veesky  !"  cried  his  father,  rising  quickly  as  he  en- 
tered. "  Ach,  mein  Sohn,  bist  du — are  you  seeck  ?  You  are  so 
pale — so  bleich."  He  opened  the  flask  when  Baretta  handed  it 
to  him%  and  sniffed  at  it  critically.  "  Here,  trink  some,"  he  said, 
holding  it  out. 

"  No,  no — I  am  quite  well ;  I  am  only  a  little  tired,"  said  Ba- 
retta, impatiently. 

"  Dot  means  you  vas  tired  of  me.  It  ees  a  cruel  ting  to  say. 
It  means  you  scorn  me  —  you  do  not  veesh  me  to  help  you. 
But  no  mataire."  He  raised  the  glass  to  his  lips  and  hastily 
swallowed  the  contents.  "  Ah,  it  is  goot  for  my  troat !" 

"  Help  me  ?"  cried  the  young  man.  "  How  can  you  help 
me  ?" 

"It  is  no  mataire.  If  you  would  trink  some  veesky  you 
would  be  a  different  man.  But  you  scorn  me.  Eh,  bienf  you 
know  best." 

Baretta  took  a  few  turns  up  and  down  the  room  before  he 
spoke.  "  See  here,  father,"  he  said  at  last,  "  there  is  no  reason 
in  the  world  why  we  should  quarrel.  I  did  not  mean  to  scorn 
you,  as  you  call  it.  Indeed,  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  though 
of  course  it  upset  me  a  little  at  first — your  coming  so  unex- 
pectedly. I  don't  suppose  you  minded  very  much  my  running 
away  from  you  twelve  years  ago.  Anyway,  I've  looked  after 
myself  pretty  well,  and  I  think  I  can  say  that  I  have  a  pretty 
good  chance  now." 

"  Oh,  ho !  a  chance.  Jawohl,  mein  Sohn,  a  goot  chance. 
Your  fader  is  der  Herr  Baron  Smolzow." 

"  Yes,  yes — I  suppose  you  are.  But  what  good  is  the  title  to 
you  ?  Now  in  my  case  it  is  different.  No  one  knows  of  you — 
they  all  think  you  are  dead  and  that  I  am  the  heir.  Look  here, 
I  wouldn't  drink  too  much  of  that  stuff,  if  I  was  you ;  it  won't 
do  you  any  good." 

"My  troat,  my  poor  troat,"  murmured  Mr.  Baretta,  as  he 
drained  the  glass  for  the  second  time.  "  And  so  dey  tink  me 
dead,  eh  ?  It  ees  vat  you  veesh,  no  doubt,  but  I  do  not  find  it 
agreeable." 

201 


"  Why  should  any  one  know  you  were  alive  ?  I  did  not 
know  it  myself.  But  that  isn't  the  point.  You  have  seen  the 
story  in  the  papers — " 

"  Ah,  mein  Vetter,  der  Herr  Graf- — my  cousin,  Baron  Smolzow. 
I  read  it  all.  Do  you  not  see  ?  I  am  all  in  black." 

"  If  you  wouldn't  keep  interrupting  me  !"  cried  the  young 
man,  petulantly.  "  What  I  was  going  to  say  was  this  :  it  can't 
be  any  particular  advantage  to  you  to  be  the  Baron,  whereas  to 
me  it  is  everything — everything  !" 

Mr.  Baretta  laughed  boisterously.  "Ho!  ho!  it  is  a  great 
plot.  You  pay  to  bury  me — naturlich." 

"You  understand,  then  ?     I  haven't  much  money,  but — " 

"Ah,  mein  Sohn,  der  funeral  sharge  are  heafy." 

"  Oh,  well !"  cried  the  young  man,  impatiently,  "  if  you  think 
you  can  bleed  me  indefinitely,  there's  an  end  of  it — there's  no 
use  in  discussing  the  matter  at  all.  You  can  tell  your  story  all 
over  town,  if  you  like.  What  difference  does  it  make  to  you  if 
you  destroy  all  I  have  done,  if  you  put  me  back  where  I  was 
when  I  left  you  to  make  my  own  way  in  the  world  ?" 

Mr.  Baretta  sighed.  "  It  is  stranche  to  me  where  you  get 
your  hartness  of  heart,  Francois,"  he  said.  "  It  was  from  your 
moder  —  not  from  me.  I  am  a  veak  fool.  My  gootness  has 
been  my  ruin." 

"  Ruin  !"  exclaimed  his  son,  bitterly.  "  You  do  well  to  talk 
of  ruin.  That's  what  you're  bringing  to  me." 

"  Ah  !  you  tink  so  ?"  Mr.  Baretta  stroked  his  beard  thought- 
fully for  several  minutes,  studying  the  scowling  countenance 
opposite  to  him  with  an  air  of  impartial  interest.  "  Dat  is  for 
you  to  say,"  he  observed  at  last,  smiling  blandly. 

"For  me?  What  have  I  to  do  with  it?  I  suppose  you'll 
please  yourself." 

"  You  cannot  be  der  Herr  Baron  Smolzow  because  you  veesh 
it — because  you  say  so ;  fela  ne  pent  pas  etre.  You  have  tried 
— ees  it  not  so  ? — and  found  it  impossible.  Eh,  bien  !  now  you 
come  to  me,  and  I  say  I  help  you — si  fela  vous  est  agr  cable" 

"  I  wish  you'd  drop  all  that  lingo  ;  I  can't  understand  what 
you  say." 

" Ah.  —  so?"     Mr.  Baretta  smiled   again,  but   not   quite  so 

202 


blandly.  "  Veil,  I  will  make  myself  plain.  Here  I  am — moi,  le 
Baron  Smolzow.  Oh,  you  do  not  spik  the  tongue — quel  mal- 
heur  !  I  will  remembaire.  Veil,  you  cannot  be  the  Baron  while 
L  stand  in  your  way.  So  ?  I  take  myself  out  of  your  way. 
Pouf !"  he  cried,  blowing  at  an  imaginary  feather,  "  I  am  gone. 
You  are  Baron  Smolzow  !" 

"  But  I  am  no  more  the  Baron  than  you  are,"  cried  the  young 
man,  irritably,  "  unless  I  have  some  proofs." 

"  Proofs  !  Ah,  mein  Sohn  !"  Mr.  Baretta  tapped  his  chest 
mysteriously.  "  If  you  knew  what  papers  I  haf !" 

"  Papers !  proofs  !  You  really  have  a  claim  ?  You  are  his 
cousin  ?" 

"  Ho  !  ho !  See,  now,  how  you  would  deceive.  You  tink 
you  are  no  baron — I  am  no  baron — and  you  still  veesh  to  be 
baron,  nicht  wahr?  Ah,  Francois,  ees  it  the  vay  I  brought  you 
up — to  lie  and  sheat  people  ?"  And  a  tear  glistened  in  the  fond 
parent's  eye. 

"  Of  course  you're  not  his  cousin,"  said  Baretta,  scornfully, 
regaining  his  self-possession.  "  I'm  not  quite  such  a  fool  as  to 
think  that.  Look  here,  now,  father,"  he  went  on,  "I've  been 
turning  the  matter  over  in  my  mind,  and  this  is  what  I  want  to 
say  to  you.  Are  you  listening  ?" 

"  Pen  m'importe:  but  I  hear  you — I  leesten." 

"  Give  the  papers  you  speak  of  to  me,  and  let  me  prove  my 
claim." 

"  To  you  ?  and  what  for  give  dem  to  you  ?  But  pah  !"  cried 
Mr.  Baretta,  with  a  gesture  of  disgust,  "  it  ees  no  sense  at  all  dat 
we  are  talking." 

The  scowl  deepened  between  the  young  man's  eyes,  and  his 
mouth  twitched  nervously  as  he  walked  to  and  fro  like  some 
caged  wild  animal.  Indeed,  his  position  seemed  to  him  not  un- 
like that  of  the  hunted  creature  at  bay.  He  had  thought  he 
was  conquering  the  world — that  world  of  indifference  and  sus- 
picion and  jealousy  which  turns  so  stern  a  face  to  rising  genius 
— and  now  here  was  a  new  enemy  to  grapple  with,  an  attack 
from  a  quarter  so  unexpected  that  he  seemed  to  have  no  means 
of  defence.  His  father  could  demolish  at  a  stroke  the  airy 
structure  which  he  had  been  weaving ;  and  why  should  he  with- 

203 


hold  his  hand?  What  inducement  could  the  son  offer?  He 
had  no  money — he  had  absolutely  nothing  for  a  bribe.  His 
only  argument  was  that  whereas  the  title  was  worth  nothing  to 
his  father,  it  was  worth  a  good  deal  to  him.  But  he  felt  that  such 
an  argument  was  rather  banal — that  the  author  of  his  being 
would  find  a  certain  satisfaction  in  pulling  him  back  to  the  level 
from  which  he  had  started.  It  even  struck  him  that  the  smile 
on  his  visitor's  face — it  had  been  almost  constant  from  the  out- 
set— was  beginning  to  change  into  a  sneer.  So  he  raged  up 
and  down  the  room  for  several  minutes  without  speaking, 
stifling  with  an  immense  effort  the  wrath  that  threatened  to 
overpower  his  self-control.  "  I  will  try  to  show  you  it  is  sense," 
said  he,  at  last,  facing  his  father  as  calmly  as  he  could.  "  But  I 
wish  you  wouldn't  interrupt  me." 

"  I  am  dumb.  I  spik  not,"  Mr.  Baretta  leaned  back  in  his 
easy-chair,  and  sighed  luxuriously.  "  Eh,  bicn  /"  he  cried,  find- 
ing that  the  other  said  nothing,  "avez-vous  quelque  chose  a  me 
dire  ?  You  veesh  to  tell  me  sometings  ?  Vill  you  pass  me  de 
veesky — my  troat  is  very  bad  to-night.  Merci,  Francois.  Go 
on — spik :  I  hear  everytings." 

"  You  speak  about  papers  —  about  proofs,"  the  young  man 
went  on.  "  Well,  if  you  have  them,  mustn't  you  be  the  Paul 
Baretta  who  came  to  America  in  1848  —  the  missing  cousin? 
And  how  could  I  know  that  you  were  not  ?"  His  father  shook 
his  head  thoughtfully  as  these  questions  were  put  to  him,  but 
made  no  reply ;  and  indeed  it  may  have  been  as  an  argument 
addressed  to  his  own  conscience  that  Baretta  asked  them  at  all. 
"  Now  as  long  as  he  remains  missing — that  is,  as  long  as  you 
remain  missing — who  can  dispute  my  claim  ?  They  say  over 
there — I  mean  in  Austria — that  he  was  undoubtedly  next  of  kin, 
and  that  if  I  am  his  son  and  heir  the  title  and  estates  are  mine. 
I  don't  know  that  I  would  have  to  prove  his  death ;  but  proofs 
of  some  sort  I  must  have.  If  you  have  such  proofs,  and  could 
give  them  to  me — " 

"  Also  ?"  murmured  Mr.  Baretta,  gently,  as  his  son  paused. 

"  Why,"  continued  the  young  man,  flushing  slightly  and  stam- 
mering, "I — I  would  look  after  you — there  would  be  money 
enough — " 

204 


"  Monfils!"  cried  Mr.  Baretta,  springing  to  his  feet,  "so  you 
do  tink  of  your  fader  in  his  old  age.  You,  der  Herr  Baron 
Smolzow,  will  have  enough  for  two — ees  it  not  so?  Schon! 
schon  !  you  will  be  a  better  baron  as  I ;  you  will  be  credit  to  a 
great  house."  He  tapped  his  breast  once  more.  "  I  haf  papers 
here,"  he  said.  "  You  vill  see  dem — oh,  soon — very  soon.  But 
I  must  tink  over  the  mataire."  He  took  up  the  bottle  of  whis- 
key and  held  it  to  the  light.  "  I  trink  champagne  to  your  Ex- 
cellence to-morrow,  eh  ?" 

But  his  son  merely  looked  at  him  and  said  nothing.  There 
was  not  much  exultation  in  his  face. 

205 


CHAPTER  XXI 
TAKEN  AT  THE  FLOOD 

PEOPLE  are  fond  of  saying  that  this  world  is  a  sceptical 
place  ;  but  that  is  one  of  those  traditional  cynicisms  which  will 
not  bear  the  test  of  critical  examination.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
the  world  is  delightfully  credulous  ;  any  one  who  is  moderately 
clever  can  convince  it  of  almost  anything.  Of  course  every 
man  has  his  enemies — ill-conditioned  fellows  who  will  persist  in 
putting  the  worst  construction  upon  his  acts.  But  if  he  knows 
enough  to  take  the  current  when  it  serves  he  need  not  worry 
about  them  ;  and  if  he  doesn't  he  ought  to  lose  his  ventures. 
The  young  Socialist  who  a  few  months  ago  was  living  in  a  single 
squalid  room  in  Arragon  Street  had  good  reason  to  believe  that 
he  had  embarked  his  fortunes  at  flood  tide. 

When  he  went  to  Mrs.  Chilton's  nowadays  it  was  with  a 
sense  of  condescension,  not  with  a  feeling  of  awe.  Mrs.  Chilton 
was  a  very  nice  sort  of  woman,  and  one  certainly  did  meet 
agreeable  people  at  her  house.  But  it  was  different,  after  all, 
from  Mrs.  Cadwallader's.  That  distinguished  leader  of  fashion, 
Mrs.  Tom  Gregorson,  had  never  found  her  way  to  Pembroke 
Square.  Mrs.  Tom  had  heard  of  the  South  End,  of  course, 
but  she  had  shrugged  her  shoulders  when  Baretta  told  her  that 
Mrs.  Chilton  lived  there,  and  had  professed  equal  ignorance  of 
Pembroke  Square  and  of  Mrs.  Chilton  herself ;  nor  did  it  occur 
to  him  that  Mrs.  Tom  was  a  very  clever  woman  and  was  prob- 
ably amusing  herself  at  his  expense.  A  man  who  is  trying  to 
get  on  cannot  afford  to  cultivate  such  an  intellectual  luxury  as  a 
sense  of  humour.  Baretta  only  saw  in  Mrs.  Tom's  raillery 
another  example  of  the  narrowness  of  the  Bostonian  point  of 

206 


view.     But  perhaps  it  had  its  effect  in  teaching  him  to  look 
down  a  little  upon  Mrs.  Chilton  and  her  friends. 

"  I  have  heard  of  you  much  oftener  than  T  have  seen  you," 
said  Mrs.  Chilton  one  Thursday  afternoon,  when  he  took  the 
trouble  to  call.  "  But  it  is  good  of  you  to  come.  You  know 
Mr.  Pinkerton,  don't  you,  Baron  ?" 

Baretta  recalled  the  circumstances  of  his  first  meeting  with 
the  eminent  reader  of  Browning,  and  how  supercilious — so  he 
thought  at  the  time — that  gentleman's  reception  of  him  had 
been.  "  Ah,  yes,  I  dare  say  I  have  met  Mr.  Pinkerton,"  he  ob- 
served. "  But  one  sees  so  many  people  that  one  forgets." 

"  Yes,  Baron,"  retorted  Mr.  Pinkerton,  with  a  smile  of  pecul- 
iar malignancy,  "  I  should  fancy  one  might  find  a  short  memory 
extremely  convenient  at  times.  Mrs.  Hunsdon  wanted  me  to  tell 
you  how  sorry  she  was  not  to  be  able  to  come  to-day,"  he  add- 
ed, addressing  his  hostess  and  turning  his  back  upon  Baretta, 
who  flushed  and  bit  his  lip,  and  then  after  a  moment  of  hesita- 
tion walked  away. 

"  Oh,  I  always  miss  her  so  much,"  said  Mrs.  Chilton.  "  Why 
do  you  dislike  the  Baron  ?"  she  added,  after  a  pause. 

"  Dislike  him  ?  Oh  no — I  don't  give  myself  that  trouble," 
replied  Mr.  Pinkerton.  "  It  would  be  nearer  the  mark  to  say 
that  I  don't  believe  in  him." 

"  Do  you  believe  in  anybody  ?" 

"  Ah,  now  you  are  giving  me  a  Roland  for  my  Oliver.  But 
you  can't  make  me  quarrel  with  you  about  that  fellow.  You 
don't  know  how  good-natured  I  can  be  when  I  try." 

"  And  do  you  often  try  ?  But  that  isn't  a  very  polite  way  of 
putting  it,"  said  Mrs.  Chilton,  smiling.  "  You  mustn't  take 
more  than  half  of  what  I  say  in  earnest." 

"  Which  half  ?  That  is  the  important  question."  Mr.  Pink- 
erton smiled  too,  but  something  in  his  look  showed  that  the 
shaft  had  gone  home. 

Meanwhile  Baretta  was  fuming  inwardly  at  the  insult — so  he 
chose  to  regard  it — which  he  had  received.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  he  had  shown  a  wonderful  amount  of  self-control  in  not  re- 
senting it  then  and  there.  Perhaps  he  forgot  that  gentlemen  do 
not  as  a  rule  make  a  lady's  drawing-room  the  scene  of  hot  words 

207 


or  personal  encounters.  And  then  there  may  have  been  fear  as 
well  as  rage  in  his  heart.  What  did  that  fellow  mean  by  talking 
about  a  short  memory  ?  Did  he  know  or  suspect  the  truth  ?  It 
had  been  more  than  a  chance  shot ;  of  that  the  young  man  was 
certain.  And  yet  what  could  he  know  ?  Hadn't  the  proofs  that 
Francis  Baretta  was  the  only  son  of  Paul  Baretta  been  ample 
enough  ?  To  be  sure,  he  hadn't  entered  into  the  possession  of 
those  estates  yet ;  the  official  mind  is  dreadfully  slow  in  its  op- 
erations. But  all  that  would  come  in  time.  Why  should  Mr. 
Pinkerton  talk  about  a  short  memory  ? 

"  It's  really  cruel  of  you,  Mr.  Baretta,  to  make  me  feel  my  in- 
significance so  keenly,"  said  a  voice  in  his  ear. 

"  Oh,  indeed — I  beg  you  pardon  !"  he  said,  with  a  start.  It 
was  Miss  Tredwell  who  had  spoken,  and  who  now  stood  smiling 
at  him. 

"  And  yet  you  were  looking  straight  at  me,"  said  Daisy. 
"  Oh,  I  haven't  forgot  how  you  snubbed  me  the  first  time  I  met 
you." 

"I  —  I  think  you  must  be  mistaken,"  stammered  Baretta. 
He  disliked  this  young  woman  intensely,  and  it  irritated  him 
thus  to  lose  his  self-possession — to  show  himself  deficient  in 
the  gift  of  raillery,  which  was  apparently  the  first  requisite  for 
conversation  in  the  higher  circles  of  society.  "  I  didn't  see  you, 
anyway,"  he  added,  bluntly. 

"  Oh,  that  makes  it  much  worse — that  is  really  dreadfully 
rude." 

"  I  guess  I  can't  please  you  whatever  I  do,"  said  the  young 
man,  scowling. 

Daisy  shot  a  sudden  glance  of  dislike  at  him — a  glance  which 
he  did  not  observe  at  all — and  then  seated  herself  and  looked 
up  at  him  smilingly.  "  When  I  want  to  talk  to  people  I  can 
forgive  their  being  rude,"  she  said. 

"  And  do  you  want  to  talk  to  me  ?     I  can't  imagine  why." 

Daisy  shook  her  fluffy  golden  head  mysteriously.  "  I  dare 
say  imagination  isn't  your  strong  point,  Mr.  Baretta.  Won't 
you  sit  down  ?  There  is  room  enough."  She  drew  her  skirts 
aside  and  nodded  at  the  vacant  place  on  the  sofa  beside  her. 

"  You  are  too  kind.  It  isn't  rude  to  say  that,  is  it  ?"  But 

208 


what  he  was  thinking  was  why  in  the  world  this  young  woman 
should  pretend  to  care  for  his  conversation  at  all.  He  felt  pos- 
itive that  she  disliked  him — that  she  was  his  secret  enemy. 
And  he  for  his  part  absolutely  hated  her.  She  was  the  last  per- 
son in  the  room  he  would  willingly  talk  to.  If  it  was  not  friend- 
ship that  impelled  her,  what  was  the  motive  ?  He  resolved  that 
he  would  be  very  cautious.  A  man  who  wants  to  get  on  has  to 
look  sharply  for  pitfalls. 

"  You  can  afford  to  spend  a  few  minutes  in  enlightening  my 
ignorance,  I  know,"  said  Daisy,  graciously.  "One  must  know 
all  that  is  going  on — mustn't  one  ?  And  I  am  so  stupid  that  I 
didn't  understand  everything  you  said  at  Mrs.  Cadwallader's." 

"Do  you  mean  by  that,  Miss  Trod  well,  that  you  are  really  in- 
terested in — in  my  lectures  ?" 

"  Interested  in  Socialism  ?  Why  not  ?  Here  in  Boston  on-e 
has  to  be  interested  in  everything.  And  then,  I  am  sure, 
Baron  " — Daisy  made  a  little  grimace  unseen  by  Baretta — "  that 
the  work  you  are  carrying  on  is  different  from  some  other 
things.  It  means  so  much  to  humanity." 

Something  in  this  last  phrase  struck  her  listener  as  odd,  and 
he  looked  at  her  keenly,  as  if  he  suspected  that  she  was  not 
quite  sincere.  But  her  bright  blue  eyes  had  never  been  more 
honest — her  smile  never  more  artless.  "Oh,  well,  of  course," 
said  Baretta  at  last,  hesitatingly  ;  "  you  are  right — quite  right. 
But  I  didn't  suppose  people — like  you — cared  much  for  that." 

Daisy  laughed.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Baretta,  your  rudeness  is  diverting, 
positively  diverting.  Forgive  me,  but  I  forget  to  call  you  by 
your  proper  title  when  you  talk  like  that.  I  dare  say  you  don't 
always  remember  yourself,  do  you  ?" 

Again  he  scanned  her  face.  "  Well,  it  was  all  very  sudden," 
he  said,  "  and  very  wonderful.  But  fortunately  I  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  proving  my  claim  to  the  title.  And,  of  course,  the  es- 
tates must  come  later." 

"  Later — oh  yes,  later,"  repeated  Daisy.  "  Many  things  will 
come  later.  Tell  me,  however,  do  you  really  intend  to  stick  to 
Socialism,  now  that  you  are  such  a  great  man  ?  To  Socialism — 
and  all  your  old  associations  ?" 

"  My  old  associations  ?     W'hat  do  you  mean  by  that  ?"     The 

o  209 


question  had  come  upon  him  so  suddenly  that  he  had  lost  his 
self-control  just  for  a  moment ;  and  thus  she  had  seen  the  look 
of  terror  in  his  eyes. 

"  Well,  if  you  don't  know  !"  said  Daisy,  laughing  again. 
"  Every  one  has  associations  of  some  sort,  even  if  they're  noth- 
ing more  than  relatives." 

"  My  father  died  when  I  was  a  mere  boy — my  mother  I  never 
knew."  Baretta  scowled  as  he  said  this,  and  turned  away,  half 
angrily. 

"  So  you  have  said,"  observed  the  girl,  calmly.  "  Oh,  I  hope 
you  don't  think  I  mean  to  be  impertinent ;  I  hope  you  are  not 
angry,"  she  added,  touching  his  arm  lightly,  and  leaning  for- 
ward with  a  look  of  entreaty. 

"  Of  course  not ;  it  isn't  worth  making  a  fuss  about.  But  I 
don't  know  why  you  should  have  so  poor  an  opinion  of  me,  Miss 
Tredwell — why  you  should  think  I  am  not  in  earnest  in  my 
work." 

"  Ah,  you  take  too  much  for  granted  !  I  never  said  I  had  a 
poor  opinion  of  you.  Besides,"  added  Daisy,  rising,  "my  opin- 
ion wouldn't  count.  There  is  Miss  Linley  corning  in — you  ought 
to  try  to  convert  her." 

Baretta  was  greatly  puzzled  by  this  conversation,  which  kept 
recurring  to  him  all  through  the  afternoon,  even  while  he  was 
talking  with  other  people.  Some  of  Miss  Tredwell's  remarks 
had  seemed  to  have  a  double  significance.  What  had  she  meant 
by  old  associations  ?  It  was  not  possible  that  she  had  ever  heard 
of  Arragon  Street — and  of  Maud.  The  recollection  of  Maud 
struck  him  with  a  sudden  chill.  Poor  Maud  !  who  had  been  so 
very  much  in  love  with  him,  and  whom  he  had  promised  to 
marry.  No  doubt  if  Miss  Tredwell  knew  of  that  episode  in  his 
career  she  might  make  things  disagreeable.  But  how  could  she 
know  ?  And  yet,  somehow  he  felt  that  her  remark  had  been  in- 
tentional. Perhaps  she  had  only  been  trying  to  make  him  com- 
mit himself — to  entrap  him  into  some  confession  which  would 
injure  him  with  Miss  Lawrence.  She  had  spoken  about  rela- 
tives, too,  and  had  as  good  as  intimated  that  she  did  not  believe 
his  story  about  his  parents.  But  how  could  she  really  know 
anything  ?  No  one  knew  except  himself.  Confound  all  prying, 

210 


impertinent  women !  Miss  Tredwell  was  a  friend  of  Yates's, 
too ;  he  had  seen  them  talking  together  at  Mrs.  Cadwallader's. 
It  would  be  just  like  Yates  to  make  mean  insinuations,  to  per- 
suade her  to  enter  into  a  plot  against  a  rival.  Baretta  had  no 
reason,  of  course,  to  suspect  such  a  thing,  but  he  was  apt  to  be 
unreasonable  when  his  own  interests  were  concerned.  Miss  Law- 
rence had  been  very  kind  to  him  of  late,  but  he  was  not  at  all 
sure  of  her  feelings  towards  him.  She  was  not  like  Maud. 
Even  when  she  was  kindest  there  was  something  in  her  manner 
which  seemed  to  bid  him  keep  at  a  distance.  Sometimes  he 
half  regretted  those  old  days,  when  Maud  had  told  him  how 
much  she  loved  him.  He  woke  in  the  night  with  the  touch  of 
her  lips  upon  his,  and  found  he  had  been  dreaming  of  the  past, 
which  seemed  sweeter  in  retrospect  than  it  had  been  in  realiza- 
tion. He  would  not  have  gone  back  to  her  if  he  could  ;  and  yet 
he  missed  her.  Sometimes  there  was  a  touch  of  self-reproach 
in  his  musings.  And  yet,  surely,  it  was  she  who  had  put  an  end 
to  everything  between  them,  and  not  he.  Such  a  thing  as  mar- 
riage was  impossible,  but  he  had  never  told  her  so ;  she  had 
taken  it  all  for  granted.  Poor  Maud !  What  did  Miss  Tred- 
well know  of  Maud  ?  Why  should  she  speak  of  old  associations  ? 
These  questions  made  him  supremely  uncomfortable.  There  are 
thorns  in  the  cushion  even  when  one  is  being  courted  and  flat- 
tered. 

Miss  Linley,  now,  whom  he  had  been  told  that  he  ought  to  con- 
vert— she  was  much  more  gracious  than  she  had  been  once.  She 
smiled  as  she  saw  him  approaching  across  the  room,  and  fixed  her 
glasses  a  little  more  firmly  upon  her  nose  in  preparation  for  the 
intellectual  fray.  Baretta  recalled  the  time  when  she  had  dismissed 
him  so  insolently,  and  his  manner  was  even  more  triumphant 
than  usual  as  he  returned  her  greeting.  "  It's  a  great  pleasure, 
I'm  sure,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  really,  Baron !  It's  good  of  you  to  say  that,  because 
there  are  so  many  things  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about.  There's 
scarcely  any  one  here,  is  there  ?"  asked  Miss  Linley,  "  so  you 
can't  have  any  excuse  for  running  away." 

"  Wouldn't  you  call  Mr.  Pinkerton  an  excuse  ?" 

"  Mr.  Pinkerton  ?     I  think  he's  odious." 

211 


"  Well,"  said  Baretta,  "  you  were  glad  enough  to  talk  to  him 
once." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?  You're  very  rude — I  hope  it 
isn't  a  part  of  Socialism  to  be  rude." 

"  Oh,  if  you  have  forgotten  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  But  as  to  us 
Socialists — well,  I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  be  what  you  call 
rude.  We're  not  likely  to  get  our  rights  by  asking  for  them 
hat  in  hand." 

"  I  wish  you  would  really  explain  what  you  think  your  rights 
are,"  said  Miss  Linley.  "  Of  course  you  can't  expect  me  to  be- 
lieve your  theories ;  still  I  should  like  to  understand  them.  I 
think  it  is  one's  duty  to  understand  things.  The  intellectual 
tendencies  of  the  time  should  be  of  as  much  interest  to  woman 
as  to  man.  The  day  is  past  when  the  higher  education  is  the 
privilege  of  one  sex." 

"  Still,  you  know,  women  can't  fight ;  and  we  have  got  to  do 
that." 

"  But  you  must  make  your  appeal  to  reason  first,  Baron  ; 
really,  you  must  do  that.  I  think  that  it  is  much  grander  to 
conceive  of  Socialism  as  an  intellectual  movement  than  as  an 
argument  of  brute  force.  I  didn't  know  you  advocated  force. 
Couldn't  you  give  a  lecture  at  Cambridge  ?  You  could  have  our 
parlours — mamma  is  always  pleased  with  the  society  of  great 
minds.  That's  why  she  likes  to  live  in  Cambridge.  And,  then, 
it's  so  convenient  to  the  Annex." 

Baretta  did  not,  however,  accept  at  once  Miss  Linley's  offer. 
He  told  her  that  he  would  be  glad  to  come  to  Cambridge  if  he 
found  that  he  could  do  so.  He  wanted  to  find  out  first  if  it 
would  be  any  advantage  to  the  cause  which  he  had  at  heart,  and 
incidentally,  of  course,  to  himself.  Besides,  he  had  not  quite 
forgiven  her  for  snubbing  him  once.  It  made  a  great  difference, 
he  told  himself,  whether  a  man  was  plain  Francis  Baretta  or  Baron 
Smolzow.  But  people  must  expect  that  the  one  would  avenge 
the  slights  which  the  other  had  received.  Magnanimity  was  an 
expensive  virtue  for  a  man  who  had  his  own  way  to  make.  It 
is  true  that  he  thought  Miss  Lawrence  had  also  snubbed  him, 
but  he  had  a  reason  for  forgiving  her.  He  went  to  see  her  the 
very  next  afternoon,  having  previously  devoted  more  time  than 

212 


usual  to  his  personal  adornment.  Once  he  had  paid  very  little 
attention  to  the  subject  of  dress.  Fashionable  clothes  marked 
one  of  those  distinctions  which  would  be  abolished  when  the 
time  arrived  for  the  true  brotherhood  of  man.  Nevertheless, 
it  did  make  a  difference  when  one  had  a  position  to  maintain. 
Titles  and  class  distinctions  were  odious;  but  so  long  as  they 
lasted  it  would  be  sheer  quixotic  folly  not  to  enjoy  them.  Be- 
sides, to  be  Baron  Smolzow  was  an  advantage  to  him  in  his 
work  ;  it  gave  greater  force  to  his  appeal  to  Society.  This  was 
the  final  argument  which  he  addressed  to  his  conscience.  And, 
of  course,  if  he  was  to  be  a  baron,  he  could  not  go  about  looking 
like  a  costermonger.  He  thought  that  he  looked  extremely  well 
in  his  silk  hat  and  buff  top-coat,  which  he  wore  unbuttoned  the 
better  to  display  his  neatly  fitting  black  cutaway-coat  and  laven- 
der trousers,  and  the  big  plated  chain  and  seals  that  dangled 
from  his  waistcoat.  The  patent-leather  shoes,  the  tan-coloured 
gloves  which  he  carried  in  his  right  hand,  and  the  red  satin 
necktie  with  its  Rhine-stone  pin,  were,  he  flattered  himself,  ex- 
tremely neat ;  he  was  especially  proud  of  the  red  necktie.  He 
gave  the  man  who  opened  the  door  a  haughty  glance,  and  asked 
for  Miss  Lawrence  with  the  air  of  command  which  sat  so  well 
upon  members  of  the  aristocracy.  There  was  nothing  like  let- 
ting these  servants  know  their  place,  he  told  himself ;  the  man 
had  been  rather  patronizing  to  him,  he  thought,  in  his  humbler 
days,  and  perhaps  did  not  even  yet  realize  his  true  rank  and  po- 
sition. "  That  young  bloke  from  the  slums  has  come  again, 
rigged  out  like  a  sport,"  was  the  man's  comment  when  he  went 
below  stairs.  "I  don't  see  how  they  can  abear  him,"  said  the 
cook.  Perhaps  Baretta's  efforts  to  be  impressive  were  not  ex- 
actly successful,  after  all.  He  was  only  "  that  young  bloke  from 
the  slums "  to  the  servants,  and  his  baronial  honours  were  as 
nothing  to  them.  It  is  an  awful  tribunal  before  which  a  man 
sits  in  his  own  house,  and  his  guests  also  come  under  its  juris- 
diction. Baretta's  history  was  perfectly  well  known  in  the  Law- 
rence household ;  everything  always  is  perfectly  well  known, 
even  although  not  a  living  soul  has  breathed  a  word  about  it. 
There  are  birds  of  the  air  to  carry  the  matter. 

Baretta  was  annoyed  to  find  that  Miss  Lawrence  was  not 

213 


alone.  He  could  hardly  have  expected  that  she  would  be,  of 
course  ;  but  that  did  not  make  his  annoyance  any  less.  How 
was  he  ever  to  make  any  progress — to  fall  into  any  real  inti- 
macy ?  These  fine  ladies  were  too  notional — too  fond  of  con- 
ventions :  they  were  not  like  Maud,  who  had  told  him  that  no 
one  would  ever  love  him  as  she  did.  The  phrase  drifted  across 
his  memory  with  uncomfortable  persistence ;  he  kept  thinking  of 
it  at  all  sorts  of  times,  even  when  he  was  in  the  presence  of  Miss 
Lawrence  herself.  Surely  this  pale,  cold,  self-possessed  young 
lady  was  not  likely  to  love  him  at  all !  She  was  talking  with  a 
languid  young  man  as  Baretta  entered  the  drawing-room,  and 
she  only  rose  to  shake  hands  with  him.  He  scowled  fiercely  at 
the  languid  youth,  who  had  stared  at  him,  as  he  thought,  in  an 
impertinent  way,  and  to  whom  his  hostess  had  not  presented  him. 
Baretta  was  enough  used  to  the  ways  of  society  by  this  time  to 
know  that  no  slight  was  intended  by  the  omission ;  and  yet 
somehow  it  chafed  him.  How  could  one  help  feeling  awkward 
in  such  a  case  ?  The  entire  indifference  of  the  other  man  was 
exasperating.  This  was  not  the  treatment  which  so  eminent  a 
personage  as  Baron  Smolzow  ought  to  receive. 

"  Ah,  yes,  Miss  Lawrence,"  the  languid  young  man  was  saying, 
"  you  ought  to  have  been  there — you  really  ought,  you  know. 
Everybody  was  there." 

"Do  you  mean,"  asked  Mildred  with  a  smile,  "that  I  am 
nobody." 

"  Nobody  ?  I — oh,  ha !  ha ! — certainly  not — didn't  mean  that 
at  all.  Fahncy  any  one  saying  that  Miss  Lawrence  was  nobody. 
But  it  was  a  first-rate  meeting,  really  ;  some  good  hurdle  racing, 
don't  you  know.  I  dare  say  hurdles  are  rather  alarming  when 
you  don't  understand  how  the  thing  is  done  ;  but  oh,  I  am  sure 
you'd  have  enjoyed  it.  Our  fellahs  do  some  capital  riding, 
don't  you  think  ?" 

At  this  point  the  young  man  turned  his  eyes  towards  Baretta, 
who  nodded  curtly,  and  then  got  up  and  walked  across  the 
room,  pretending  to  examine  a  minute  bit  by  Wouvermans  that 
hung  on  the  opposite  wall.  How  can  she  endure  such  an  idiot  ? 
was  Baretta's  thought.  But  what  can  women  not  endure? 
Whom  can  they  not  like  ?  Confound  all  women,  anyway !  he 

214 


said  to  himself  angrily.  This  uncharitable  sentiment  was 
strengthened  when  he  discovered  that  one  of  two  persons  whom 
he  had  seen  indistinctly  when  he  came  in  was  Miss  Tredwell.  She 
had  been  talking  with  a  tall  girl  in  black,  and  when  he  turned 
she  smiled  and  nodded.  Why  should  she  give  herself  that 
trouble  ?  he  wondered.  Of  course  she  hated  him ;  of  that  he 
was  very  sure.  And  he  felt  that  she  somehow  stood  between 
him  and  Miss  Lawrence,  and  so  he  hated  her.  But  after  she 
had  recognized  him  thus  cordially  he  could  do  no  less  than  go 
over  and  speak  to  her. 

"  I  can't  say  you  are  a  great  stranger,  can  I  ?"  said  Daisy, 
still  smiling.  "  I  suppose  I  ought  to  say  it's  an  unexpected 
pleasure." 

"Don't  feel  obliged  to  compliment  me,"  said  the  young  man, 
brusquely.  "  I  ain't — I'm  not  used  to  it." 

"  But  one  gets  used  to  so  many  things,  Baron — even  to  a  title. 
Oh,  Miss  Prime,  do  you  know  Baron  Smolzow  ?" 

The  tall  girl  remarked  that  she  hadn't  that  pleasure,  and 
made  some  perfunctory  observation  regarding  the  state  of  the 
weather,  to  which  Baretta  paid  little  heed.  He  was  wondering 
what  in  the  world  Miss  Tredwell  meant  by  sneering  at  his  title ; 
he  was  sure  that  it  was  a  sneer.  She  had  made  him  feel  very 
uncomfortable  by  what  she  had  said  at  Mrs.  Chilton's.  To  be- 
gin again  in  this  way  was  like  a  challenge.  Well,  she  should 
find  him  a  formidable  enemy.  He  did  not  intend  that  his 
career  should  be  wrecked  by  anything  that  a  foolish  young 
woman  could  say  or  do.  Nevertheless,  it  was  annoying  to  find 
that  Miss  Lawrence's  own  intimate  friend  suspected  him. 

"  You — you  don't  seem  to  be  fond  of  titles,"  he  said  at  last, 
meeting  Miss  Tredwell's  glance  defiantly. 

"  Oh,  I  am  an  American  girl — why  should  I  be  fond  of  them?" 

"  Is  that  a  conundrum  ?     I'm  not  good  at  conundrums." 

"  Indeed !"  cried  Daisy,  with  a  little  shrug. 

"  Or  mysteries  either,"  he  added. 

"  Really  !     I  should  have  said  just  the  opposite." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?"  asked  Baretta,  scowling. 

"Perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  tell  you  when  I  know  myself." 
A  mocking  smile  glimmered  for  an  instant  about  her  lips ;  then 

215 


she  turned  to  Miss  Prime  and  said :  "  You  will  want  to  hear 
some  of  the  Baron's  lectures  ;  he's  a  dreadful  Socialist — he 
wants  to  murder  us  all  in  our  beds,  or  blow  us  up  with 
dynamite." 

"  Oh  !"  cried  Miss  Prime,  with  a  little  shiver  of  apprehension. 
"  What  horrid  things  you  say,  Daisy !  Of  course,  Baron,  yon 
know  I  wouldn't  believe  her." 

"  Wouldn't  you  ?     Well,  I  guess  no  one  will,"  said  Baretta. 

Daisy  rose  and  started  to  cross  the  room  to  where  Mildred 
was  sitting.  "  I  wouldn't  be  too  sure  of  that,"  she  said,  looking 
back  at  him. 

The  young  man  bit  his  lip  savagely,  and  turned  away  from 
Miss  Prime  with  an  abruptness  that  was  certainly  extremely 
rude,  and  which  led  her  to  say  afterwards  that  the  only  re- 
markable thing  about  Baron  Smolzow  was  his  remarkably  bad 
manners.  But  Baretta  was  not  in  the  mood  to  mind  being 
made  the  occasion  of  disparaging  epigrams  like  this.  He  was 
furiously  angry  with  Miss  Tredwell.  What  did  she  know  ? 
What  could  she  know  ?  And  yet  she  persisted  in  talking  as  if 
she  knew  everything  and  was  only  waiting  an  opportunity  to 
expose  him.  It  was  something  more  than  mere  insolence — the 
insolence  of  one  who  disliked  him,  who  was  conspiring  with 
Yates  against  him.  Yates !  Well,  there  was  satisfaction  in 
thinking  that  Yates,  at  least,  was  out  of  the  running — that  he 
could  not  be  by  to  poison  Miss  Lawrence's  mind  against  a  rival 
whom  he  had  reason  to  fear. 

"  Oh  do,  do  get  that  extraordinary  baron  of  yours  out  of  the 
way  !  What  a  figure  he  makes  with  that  dreadful  coat — and  the 
red  necktie  !"  This  was  what  Daisy  was  whispering  in  Mildred's 
ear  while  Baretta  stood  watching  them  with  an  angry  scowl. 

"  Daisy  !  I  am  ashamed  of  you,"  said  Mildred.  She  felt  the 
truth  of  her  friend's  words ;  she  had  thought  that  Baretta 
looked  ridiculous  in  his  flamboyant  costume  when  he  first  came 
in.  But  she  knew  that  Daisy  disliked  him,  and  as  she  saw  him 
standing  there,  alone  and  obviously  in  a  bad  temper,  she  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  Daisy  had  been  very  rude  to  him,  as  she 
could  be  to  those  she  disliked.  "  He  is  at  least  my  guest,"  said 
Mildred,  with  a  lofty  air ;  and  then  she  approached  him  with  a 

216 


look  of  more  than  usual  friendliness — a  look  which  at  once 
brought  back  to  his  mind  all  those  absurd  ambitions  he  was 
fond  of  cherishing. 

"  I  did  not  see  you  yesterday,  and  I — I  thought  you  would 
not  mind  if  I  came  to-day,"  said  Baretta,  beginning  to  forget 
that  she  had  neglected  him  on  his  arrival. 

"  Yesterday  ?" 

"  At  Mrs.  Chilton's — I  looked  in  there  a  few  minutes,"  ex- 
plained Baretta,  his  manner  implying  that  it  was  a  great  compli- 
ment to  Mrs.  Chilton.  "  I  hoped  you  would  be  there." 

"  Thank  you — although  I'm  not  vain  enough  to  take  your 
compliment  too  literally." 

"It  wouldn't  be  vanity,  Miss  Lawrence.  And  I  want  you  to 
believe  everything  I  say." 

"Everything!  Oh  you  must  make  half  do!  you  cannot  ex- 
pect more  than  that.  People  always  exaggerate  so  much." 

"  I  don't  exaggerate,"  declared  Baretta.  He  wondered  what 
Miss  Tredwell  had  been  saying  to  her — if  she,  too,  were  begin- 
ning to  distrust  him.  Of  course  such  a  suspicion  on  his  part 
was  baseless.  Mildred  had,  indeed,  gone  very  far  in  taking  him 
at  his  own  valuation,  and  had  resented  Daisy's  innuendoes  with 
much  warmth  on  previous  occasions.  She  could  not  help  feel- 
ing that  he  was  unused  to  many  things  which  in  her  circle  of 
acquaintances  were  taken  for  granted ;  but  that  was  simply  his 
misfortune.  His  poverty  had  been  a  sufficient  explanation — or 
at  least  it  ought  to  have  been  ;  perhaps  she  was  not  so  very 
sure  that  it  was.  The  reality  of  his  title  she  did  not  now  for  a 
moment  question.  He  had  established  his  claim  quite  clearly ; 
the  proofs  were  wellnigh  incontestable.  It  was  odd,  almost  in- 
explicable ;  nevertheless  it  was  true.  The  young  man  whom 
her  father  had  befriended,  whom  she  had  treated  with  an  un- 
acknowledged sense  of  condescension,  was  the  heir  to  a  title 
and  estates  in  a  foreign  land.  It  was  all  like  a  romance — a  Jin 
du  siecle  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw. 

"  No,  don't  think  I  exaggerate,"  repeated  Baretta. 

"  Well,  then  I  won't,  since  you  are  so  much  in  earnest  about 
it." 

"  Thank  you — oh,  thank  you  !  I  want  you  to  believe  in  me. 

217 


Every  man  has  enemies — those  who  won't  believe  in  him,  who 
try  to  misrepresent  what  he  does,  who  think  all  sorts  of  evil 
things  about  him.  Don't  let  them  prejudice  you." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Mr.  Baretta — I  beg  your  pardon,  but 
the  old  name  is  much — " 

"  Call  me  that !"  he  cried,  interrupting  her.  "  What  is  a 
trumpery  title  compared  with —  But  if  you  believe  in  me,  why, 
then  I  can  defy  them  all." 

"  I — I  think  yon  are  a  little  too — sensitive,"  said  Mildred. 
She  was  somewhat  puzzled  by  his  manner ;  apprehensive,  too, 
of  she  knew  not  what.  And  yet  she  did  not  wish  to  offend 
him.  "  I  am  sure  you  have  no  reason  to  think  me  anything  but 
a  friend,"  she  added,  "  and  always  glad  to  hear  of  your  success." 

"  Oh,  you  will  hear  of  it !"  said  Baretta,  confidently. 

218 


CHAPTER  XXII 
"LA  LUTTE  POUR  LA  VIE" 

THE  little  shop  where  Maud  helped  to  sell  newspapers  and 
candy,  and  footed  up  the  small  accounts  with  the  customers 
in  the  neighbourhood,  was  a  stuffy  place ;  and  she  came  home 
one  evening  not  only  tired  but  with  a  bad  headache.  It  was 
quite  a  distance  that  she  had  to  walk,  and  through  a  part  of  the 
city  which  was  not  pleasant.  She  too  often  had  to  face  imper- 
tinent stares  even  in  coming  along  Tremont  Street,  where  the 
lights  burned  brilliantly,  and  she  had  no  reason  to  fear.  But 
when  she  turned  into  the  dingy  tangle  of  thoroughfares  which 
led  her  across  the  railway  bridge  and  thence  to  Arragon  Street, 
she  could  not  help  feeling  nervous.  She  had  been  followed  by 
strange  men  more  than  once,  and  sometimes  they  had  spoken  to 
her ;  and  one  fellow  had  even  dogged  her  to  her  very  door,  trying 
to  whisper  endearing  epithets,  every  one  of  which  was  an  insult. 
There  was  a  time  when  Baretta  used  to  come  to  the  shop  to 
meet  her,  and  then  she  did  not  care.  But  that  was  long  ago — 
oh,  so  very  long  ago !  Sometimes  Maud  repelled  unwelcome 
advances  by  an  angry  stare.  She  could  not  do  as  other  girls 
did — "  chaff  "  these  men,  and  give  them  as  good  as  they  sent ; 
and  she  was  trying  too  hard  to  be  a  lady  even  to  notice  them. 
And  then  at  times  she  would  ask  herself  what  was  the  good  of 
try  ing  to  be  anything?  There  was  no  happiness  left  for  her  in  life 
— unless  that  mad  reckless  race  to  death  were  happiness  ;  a  race 
of  bacchantic  exultation,  of  hot  riot,  with  only  the  misery  of  the 
black  waters  at  the  end.  Oh  no  !  anything — anything  would  be 
better  than  that !  Anything  but  living  on  forever  in  Arragon 
Street,  and  going  back  and  forth  from  the  stuffy  little  shop  ! 

219 


Things  had  been  going  very  badly  indeed  in  the  Dolan  house- 
hold. It  was  a  wonder  that  they  still  had  a  roof  over  their 
heads.  Baretta's  departure  had  made  a  vast  difference  to  Mrs. 
Dolan,  who  had  so  long  been  used  to  counting  upon  the  two  dol- 
lars which  he  paid  to  her  every  week,  that  without  it  she  hardly 
knew  how  to  provide  for  her  large  family  at  all.  Two  dollars 
was  not  such  a  very  great  sum,  and  yet  it  seemed  to  make  all 
the  difference  between  comfort  and  want.  So  many  things  could 
be  bought  on  Saturday  evening  when  one  actually  had  the  mon- 
ey in  one's  pocket.  To  be  sure,  the  two  older  boys  paid  some- 
thing for  their  board,  and  there  was  Maud's  three  dollars,  which 
she  turned  into  the  common  fund,  making  over  her  own  dresses 
and  only  buying  a  ribbon  now  and  then.  But  the  two  dollars ! 
— it  was  like  losing  a  fortune.  Dolan's  own  contributions  had  be- 
come more  and  more  irregular.  The  strike  at  the  works  had 
been  a  long  and  tedious  affair ;  and  of  course  when  a  man  had 
nothing  to  do,  how  could  he  go  on  giving  money  to  his  wife  ? 
Dolan's  way  of  looking  at  it  was  that  the  butcher  and  grocer  could 
wait.  But  it  was  very  little  credit  that  could  be  got  from  either, 
and  so  when  Dolan  found  that  the  meals  to  be  obtained  at  home 
were  scanty  he  stayed  away  altogether.  He  would  come  home 
just  before  midnight,  usually  very  drunk,  and  tumble  into  bed 
with  muttered  oaths  and  curses,  to  sleep  until  the  next  noon ; 
and  when  he  awoke  it  was  in  a  very  bad  temper  indeed,  which 
manifested  itself  in  more  oaths  and  curses  and  blows  for  his 
wife  or  the  children  if  they  came  in  his  way.  There  was  some 
money  every  week  from  the  Union,  but  a  poor  man  out  of  work 
had  to  spend  that  on  himself ;  his  whiskey  and  his  tobacco  were 
the  only  consolations  left  to  him.  It  was  not  so  much  of  a  con- 
solation to  know  that  the  works  remained  closed,  for  there  were 
reasons  for  believing  that  the  owners  could  make  more  money 
during  the  dull  summer  season  in  this  way  than  if  they  had  a 
long  pay-roll  to  provide  for.  Luck  kept  on  talking  of  their  suc- 
cess and  how  the  "  scabs"  had  been  frightened  away.  But  some 
of  the  strikers  had  got  other  jobs,  and  these  insisted  that  the 
works  could  open  again  any  day  and  find  all  the  help  they  want- 
ed. Somehow  or  other  these  bloody  capitalists  always  managed 
to  get  the  upperhand.  And  the  last  week  in  August  brought 

220 


rumours  of  their  starting  up  once  more,  coupled  with  the  assur- 
ance that  none  of  the  strikers  would  be  taken  back.  "  Let  'em 
try  it,  that's  all !"  cried  Luck.  They  did  try  it ;  and  although  for 
a  few  days  the  new  men  had  to  go  back  and  forth  under  police 
protection,  it  was  not  long  before  everything  was  running  as 
smoothly  as  if  the  strike  had  never  been.  But  it  didn't  occur 
to  any  of  the  old  men  to  blame  Luck.  It  was  only  a  part  of  the 
general  injustice  of  the  world  that  they  could  not  get  their 
rights. 

"  I  told  ye  'twould  be  that  way,"  said  Mrs.  Dolan  plaintively, 
one  evening,  when  her  husband  came  home  at  supper-time.  He 
was  in  a  surly  mood,  but  he  had  been  drinking  less  than  usual, 
and  she  realized  that  the  opportunity  had  come  to  "  have  it  out " 
with  him. 

"  Shut  up,  dom  ye,"  was  Dolan's  reply.  "  Phwat  the  divvle 
do  you  know  about  my  business  ?" 

"  Shure,  I  know  ye  wor  a  fool  to  quit  work,  an'  I'm  afther 
thinkin'  yez  orter  go  back.  There  ain't  but  sivin  cints  in  the 
house,  and  where  there's  ony  more  to  come  from  is  more'n  I 
know." 

"  Sivin  cints  be  dommed  !  Has  that  furriner  of  yours  been 
round  puttin'  ijeers  in  your  head  ?  I'd  loike  to  break  his  dom 
skull— that's  what  I'd  loike  to  do  !" 

"What  furriner  do  ye  mane,  Peter?  There's  no  furriners 
here." 

"  Makin'  up  to  our  gyurl  and  then  goin'  off  without  a  word ! 
You  an'  her  is  fools,"  said  Dolan. 

"  Oh,  is  it  Mr.  Baretta  ?     Who  drove  him  off,  tell  me  that  ?" 

"  Well,  it's  a  good  riddance  he  is,  an'  I'd  loike  it  if  he'd  taken 
the  gyurl  wid  him — a  dom  hussy  that's  too  stuck  up  for  the 
loikes  of  us." 

"  Arrah,  Peter  Dolan !  ye're  a  hard  man  on  yer  own  daughter 
— the  poor  crayther.  Many's  the  time  I've  seen  her  cryin'  whin 
she  thought  I  waVt  afther  lookin'.  It  was  a  bad  day  when  he 
left  this  house,  that  it  was." 

"  Go  to  hell  wid  ye  !"  retorted  Dolan,  cutting  off  the  discus- 
sion. "  Are  ye  goin'  to  fry  that  liver  or  ain't  ye  ?  I'm  dom 
hungry." 

221 


Nevertheless,  Mrs.  Dolan's  words  had  some  effect.  Dolan 
had  at  first  been  only  too  glad  to  have  Baretta  out  of  the  house. 
He  wanted  to  pay  him  out  for  the  blow  he  had  struck  on  that 
evening  in  the  saloon  when  he  had  brought  the  chair  down  upon 
Dolan's  own  head,  thereby  forestalling  the  operation  of  pum- 
melling which  Dolan  had  intended  to  bestow  upon  him.  At  the 
same  time  he  thought  it  was  more  prudent  to  have  the  object  of 
his  future  vengeance  elsewhere  than  under  his  own  roof.  Baretta 
might  in  that  case  again  forestall  him,  and  this  time  perhaps 
with  the  knife  that  he  had  not  had  a  chance  to  use  then.  Do- 
lan much  preferred  to  wait  for  an  opportunity  to  take  his  foe  at 
a  complete  disadvantage,  when  he  could  make  short  work  of  him. 
That  Baretta  had  abandoned  his  "  gyurl  " — that  she  was  crying 
in  secret  for  him — only  added  fuel  to  the  flame  of  his  hatred. 
He  himself  might  call  her  a  hussy ;  he  might  swear  at  her  and 
abuse  her ;  but  he  was  her  father,  which  made  all  the  difference 
in  the  world.  No  other  man  should  make  her  cry  with  impunity. 
She  was  well  rid  of  such  a  fellow,  but  that  was  no  excuse  for  his 
leaving  her.  It  was  a  heavy  score  which  he  had  to  settle  with 
his  former  lodger.  His  ideas  of  Baretta's  present  occupation 
were  of  the  vaguest.  Luck  had  told  him  once  that  the  young 
man  was  "  up  to  some  new  game,"  and  was  calling  himself  Baron 
Something-or-other ;  but  what  this  meant  he  did  not  precisely 
understand.  "  Him  a  baron  !"  was  his  contemptuous  reply.  It 
must  be  something  in  the  confidence  line  ;  which  showed,  of 
course,  what  a  scamp  the  fellow  was.  "  An'  the  impidence  of 
him,"  cried  Dolan,  "  to  lave  my  gyurl  to  cry  her  eyes  out  for 
him,  the  dirty  baste  !" 

It  was  on  the  evening  when  Maud  came  home  from  the  shop 
with  a  bad  headache  that  her  father  met  her  in  the  entry  and 
tried  to  question  her  about  Baretta.  "  Where's  that  dom  cuss 
now  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Who  do  you  mean  ?"  retorted  the  girl,  with  a  toss  of  her 
head.  "  I  wish  you'd  mind  your  own  business,"  she  added, 
crossly. 

"  Look  here,  don't  ye  talk  loike  that  to  me,"  said  her  father, 
roughly,  seizing  her  by  the  arm. 

"  Let  me  go  !"  She  tried  to  free  herself,  but  he  held  her  fast. 

222 


"  I'll  let  ye  go  when  I  dom  plase  !  It's  that  f urrin  cuss  I 
mane,  that  came  smoilin'  an'  shlobberin'  round  ye,  until  you 
couldn't  spake  a  dacent  wurrud  to  yer  own  father,  an'  thin  wint 
off  wid  another  gyurl — thot's  what  he  did,  an'  deny  it  if  ye  can." 

"  I  sha'n't  deny  anything — I've  got  nothing  to  say.  You're 
hurting  me,"  said  Maud,  beginning  to  sob.  "  Let  me  go — my 
head  aches  fit  to  split." 

"  Hussy !"  cried  Dolan,  accompanying  the  epithet  with  a  vol- 
ley of  oaths.  "  Do  ye  talk  loike  thot  to  me  ?"  He  grasped  her 
arm  more  tightly  than  ever  and  thrust  her  against  the  wall.  "  Ye 
dom  fool,  I'll  make  ye  talk !"  he  cried. 

Maud  cowered  and  shrunk  for  a  moment  before  this  sudden 
violence,  then,  in  a  blind  spasm  of  rage,  she  lifted  her  free  arm 
and  with  all  the  force  she  could  command  slapped  her  father  in 
the  face.  The  movement  took  him  so  entirely  by  surprise  that 
at  first  he  staggered  back ;  then  he  seized  her  again,  and  with  a 
curse  dealt  her  a  blow  that  sent  her  headlong  to  the  floor.  "  Try 
that  again,  ye  dom  hussy  !"  he  shouted. 

The  girl  picked  herself  up  slowly,  and  faced  him  once  more. 
"  You  coward — oh,  you  coward !"  she  said.  Her  eyes  were 
blazing  with  passion,  but  her  voice  was  singularly  low,  her  man- 
ner almost  rigidly  calm.  "  Don't  mind,  mother,"  she  added,  for 
Mrs.  Dolan  had  come  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  where  she  stood 
wailing  and  wringing  her  hands.  "  Don't  mind — it's  the  last 
time  he'll  ever  strike  me."  She  stood  irresolute  a  moment,  then 
turned  and  went  up-stairs  and  into  her  own  room,  disregarding 
her  mother's  sobs  and  entreaties,  and,  indeed,  locking  the  door 
in  her  face. 

"  Oh,  Peter,  Peter !"  wailed  Mrs.  Dolan. 

"  Shtop  yer  whimperin',  ye  old  fool ;  I  didn't  mane  to  hurt 
her,  but  she  give  me  a  whack  first — it  shtings  loike  the  divvle," 
muttered  Dolan. 

Poor  Maud  threw  herself  headlong  on  the  bed  and  buried 
her  throbbing  head  in  the  pillow.  This  was  the  crowning  in- 
dignity— to  be  struck  like  that.  The  coward !  the  brute  !  Her 
own  father,  but  no  longer  any  father  to  her !  "  Oh,  Frank,  if 
you  could  see  me  now  !"  she  moaned.  He  would  pity  her — yes, 
he  would  do  that.  He  had  never  loved  her  ;  he  had  thrown  her 

223 


over  heartlessly  enough  when  his  fortune  came  ;  but  still  he  had 
always  been  kind.  She  had  come  away  from  that  final  interview 
full  of  all  the  bitterness  of  renunciation.  She  had  even  tried  to 
be  angry  with  him,  to  dismiss  him  from  her  thoughts ;  but  no 
such  easy  relief  from  her  misery  was  possible.  She  could  not 
forget  how  much  she  had  cared  for  him.  Although  she  had  un- 
derstood so  clearly  that  all  was  over  between  them,  and  would 
have  sent  him  away  if  he  had  come,  she  was  tortured  for  many 
days  with  the  expectation  that  he  might  after  all  refuse  to  give 
her  up.  He  must  have  understood  that  it  wellnigh  broke  her 
heart  to  say  good-bye  to  him.  But  there  had  only  been  a  long 
silence  ;  and  now  that  the  worst  had  come  she  had  not  a  single 
friend  in  the  world  to  whom  to  turn.  She  could  no  longer  stay 
at  home ;  her  father  should  never  have  the  opportunity  to  strike 
her  again.  Home !  was  it  home  at  all  ? — this  place  where  a 
drunken  brute  abused  wife  and  children,  and  left  them  to  shift 
for  themselves  while  he  lounged  about  all  day  and  guzzled  in 
saloons.  The  dirty  loafer !  some  one  ought  to  teach  him  better 
manners.  This  was  not  very  nice  language  for  a  girl  to  use,  to 
be  sure ;  but  in  moments  of  excitement  Maud  was  apt  to  forget 
her  education  in  the  public  schools  and  fall  back  upon  the  current 
coin  of  Arragon  Street.  "  Oh,  Frank  !  I  guess  you'd  feel  sorry 
for  me,"  she  sobbed.  He  would  not  know,  of  course ;  he  was 
too  happy  to  think  of  her,  and  she  would  never  of  her  own  will 
see  him  again.  He  was  a  great  man  now.  Doubtless  he  would 
marry  that  girl  whom  he  had  really  loved  all  the  time,  but  who 
never  had  cared  for  him.  Maud  felt  that  she  hated  her  for  her 
unconscious  share  in  directing  her  own  destiny.  She  had  seen 
at  once  that  she  must  give  up  Baretta,  but  still  with  that  incon- 
sistency characteristic  of  her  sex  she  hated  Baretta's  future 
wife. 

Maud  had  little  to  take  away  from  Arragon  Street  with  her. 
She  had  not  been  able  to  buy  any  new  clothes  for  a  long  time, 
and  she  finally  decided  upon  keeping  only  a  single  gown  in  ad- 
dition to  the  one  she  wore.  She  got  up  very  early  in  the  morn- 
ing to  make  her  preparations  for  departure,  intending  to  steal 
away  when  all  the  family  were  at  breakfast.  Not  a  soul  should 
know  where  she  had  gone.  No  one  but  her  mother  would  care, 

224 


anyway,  and  she  felt  that  she  could  not  at  present  undergo  the 
ordeal  of  encountering  Mrs.  Dolan's  screams  and  reproaches;  the 
habit  of  "  making  a  scene  "  was  growing  upon  that  well-inten- 
tioned but  vulgar  woman.  Maud  resolved  to  write  a  line  to 
Arragon  Street  by-and-by  to  let  them  know  that  nothing  had 
happened  to  her ;  and,  perhaps,  if  she  prospered,  she  might 
some  day  go  back  and  let  them  see  for  themselves  how  advan- 
tageous her  departure  had  been.  It  was  a  foolish  scheme,  no 
doubt,  and  Maud  was  foolishly  elated  by  it.  She  almost  forgot 
the  reason  for  the  perilous  step  she  was  taking  in  the  delight  of 
anticipated  freedom.  It  would  be  everything  not  to  have  to 
come  home  to  Arragon  Street  every  evening.  She  did  not  even 
stop  to  calculate  how  far  her  three  dollars  a  week  would  go  in 
providing  her  with  a  decent  lodging  somewhere  else,  and  plenty 
of  palatable  food,  and  still  have  something  for  a  new  gown  now 
and  then.  She  hummed  brief  snatches  of  familiar  songs  as  she 
gathered  her  belongings  into  an  awkward  parcel,  secured  with 
pins  in  lieu  of  string.  To  be  free  !  it  meant  so  much.  She 
went  to  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  listened  intently  ;  and  when 
she  heard  the  clatter  of  knives  and  forks  below  she  stole  quietly 
down,  with  the  parcel  under  one  arm,  and,  closing  the  front 
door  gently  behind  her,  hurried  along  the  gray  street — it  was 
raining  and  all  the  neighbours  were  in-doors — with  a  guilty  ex- 
pectation that  she  might  yet  be  followed  and  compelled  to  re- 
turn. 

She  went  first  to  the  little  shop,  and  it  was  not  until  she  had 
been  there  half  an  hour  that  she  realized  how  necessary  it  was 
that  she  should  find  work  somewhere  else.  This  aspect  of  the 
case  struck  a  sudden  chill  to  her  heart.  Would  she,  then,  have 
to  abandon  her  purpose  altogether  ?  Oh  no  ;  that  was  some- 
thing which  she  could  not  do  !  She  would  rather  beg — she 
would  rather  starve — than  live  under  her  father's  roof  any  more. 
All  her  courage,  all  her  cheerfulness,  deserted  her.  She  sat 
down  behind  the  counter  and  cried  ;  her  sense  of  desolation 
seemed  to  be  supreme.  And  then  she  recalled  the  fact  that  she 
had  eaten  no  breakfast,  and  that  she  had  no  money  to  buy  any. 
She  dried  her  eyes  hastily,  and  went  up  to  the  woman  who 
kept  the  shop. 

r  225 


"  Can  I  have  my  money  to-day  ?"  she  asked. 

"  To-day  ?  To-day  is  Friday,"  said  the  woman,  counting  over 
the  cash  in  the  drawer  before  her. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  answered  Maud,  "  but  I  need  it  very  much, 
and  as  to-morrow  is  Saturday — " 

"  And  Saturday  is  pay-day.  You  forgot,  didn't  you  ?"  added 
her  employer,  with  a  disagreeable  laugh.  "  What  brings  you 
round  so  early  ?  Dust  them  shelves,  as  long  as  you're  here." 

Maud  forced  back  the  angry  retort  which  rose  to  her  lips. 
But  when  the  woman  went  into  the  room  behind  to  eat  her  own 
breakfast,  and  some  one  came  in  to  buy  a  paper  and  offered  a 
dollar-bill  in  payment,  she  went  to  the  drawer  and  took  out  two 
dollars  and  a  half,  which  she  slipped  into  her  pocket.  "  I  guess 
that  ain't  stealing,"  she  said  to  herself ;  "  I  don't  charge  her  for 
to-morrow,  anyway."  She  smiled  grimly,  and  putting  on  her 
hat  and  taking  up  her  parcel,  went  out  into  the  rainy  morning 
once  more.  She  ate  something  in  a  dingy  restaurant  near  by, 
and  then  spent  several  dreary  hours  in  trying  to  find  a  furnished 
room.  She  wanted  to  be  far  enough  away  so  that  she  would 
run  little  risk  of  meeting  those  who  knew  her,  and  she  walked 
almost  to  Roxbury  before  she  began  to  make  any  inquiries. 
She  found  herself  at  last  in  a  quarter  mainly  given  over  to  cheap 
tenements,  and  here  she  thought  that  she  might  find  something 
within  reach  of  her  slender  means.  But  her  experiences  were 
very  discouraging.  The  untidy  women  to  whom  she  preferred 
her  request  were  naturally  suspicious  of  a  young  person  with  a 
single  parcel.  Even  the  wretched  plight  she  was  in — she  had 
been  walking  through  the  rain  without  an  umbrella — could  not 
disguise  the  fact  that  she  was  good-looking,  which  added  to 
their  suspicions.  "  We  don't  let  no  rooms  here,"  was  the  usu- 
ally surly  response.  But  she  would  not  abandon  the  search ; 
she  would  not  go  back  to  Arragon  Street.  She  found  her  way 
at  last  to  a  dingy  grocer's  shop,  where  she  bought  some  sweet 
biscuit,  for  she  was  beginning  to  feel  hungry  again,  and  asked 
the  man  behind  the  counter  if  he  knew  of  any  respectable  lodg- 
ings in  the  neighbourhood.  He  hesitated  a  moment  and 

O  CT 

scratched  his  head  reflectively. 

"  Oh,  well,"  he  said  at  last,  dubiously.     "  I  guess  Mrs.  Jack- 

226 


son,  at  Number  Twenty,  might  take  you  in.  I  heard  her  say 
yesterday  she'd  got  a  room  she  didn't  exactly  need  for  her 
folks.  It's  the  fourth  house  on  this  side." 

Maud  thanked  him  and  went  to  find  Mrs.  Jackson — a  slat- 
ternly woman  in  a  faded  and  greasy  wrapper,  who  opened  the 
door  just  far  enough  to  allow  her  to  put  her  head  out,  while  she 
listened  with  an  indifferent  air  to  Maud's  story. 

"  I  expect  to  have  some  work  in  a  few  days,"  said  Maud, 
"  but  I  want  a  quiet  place  to  stay  in,  and  the  grocer  just  below 
said  you  might  have  a  room  for  me." 

"  Oh,  the  grocer  said  that,  did  he  ?"  replied  Mrs.  Jackson,  un- 
graciously. "  Well,  I'll  just  thank  him  to  mind  his  own  busi- 
ness." 

"  Then  I  guess  I  needn't  trouble  you,"  said  Maud,  with  an 
angry  flush,  turning  to  go  down  the  steps  again. 

"  Hold  on !"  cried  the  woman,  opening  the  door  a  few  inches 
farther.  "  I  hain't  said  I  wouldn't  take  you,  have  I  ?  It's  a 
small  room — perhaps  it  wouldn't  suit  you.  Where  did  you 
come  from,  anyway  ?"  she  asked,  abruptly. 

Maud  tried  in  vain  to  speak  ;  there  was  a  sudden  choking 
sensation  in  her  throat  which  she  could  not  overcome.  It  was 
such  a  wretched  plight  to  be  in — she  was  so  tired,  so  hungry, 
so  wet,  so  thoroughly  miserable.  She  stood  looking  blankly  at 
her  questioner  for  a  moment ;  then  sank  half-fainting  to  the 
step  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Lor'  sakes  !"  cried  Mrs.  Jackson,  throwing  the  door  wide 
open.  She  was  a  soft-hearted  person,  in  spite  of  her  belligerent 
manner,  and  this  unspoken  appeal  for  sympathy  touched  her. 
"  You  jest  come  in  an'  git  dry,  anyway,"  she  said,  stooping 
down  and  half  dragging  the  girl  over  the  threshold.  "  There's 
a  fire  in  the  kitchen ;  come  in  here."  She  led  the  way  through 
a  dark  and  narrow  entry  into  a  small  and  not  over-clean  rooin, 
which  contained  a  rusty  range,  on  which  a  teakettle  hummed 
and  a  stewpan  gave  forth  odours  of  boiling  onions  ;  a  sink, 
piled  high  with  dirty  dishes,  two  chairs  without  backs,  and  a 
wooden  table  grimy  with  the  marks  of  immemorial  dinners. 
"  You  set  down,"  said  Mrs.  Jackson,  pointing  to  one  of  the 
chairs. 

227 


"  You'll  think  I'm  a  fool !"  exclaimed  Maud,  at  last,  trying  to 
stifle  her  sobs.  "  I  guess  the  walking  and  the  rain  was  too 
much  for  me.  I'll  tell  you  how  it  was,"  she  said,  sitting  up  and 
looking  at  Mrs.  Jackson  almost  defiantly.  "  I  ran  away  from 
home.  My  father  beat  me,  and  I  wouldn't  stand  it.  I  can  get 
work  enough,  and  I'll  pay  you  a  week  in  advance  now,  but  I 
won't  go  back  there  again." 

"  It'll  be  a  dollar,  then.     What's  your  name  ?" 

"  Maud." 

"  Maud  ? — Maud  what  ?" 

"  Vivian."  She  gave  the  first  name  which  occurred  to  her. 
It  was  a  name  which  had  pleased  her  in  a  novel  she  had  read 
only  the  day  before.  Gladys  Vivian  was  the  heroine,  and  she 
had  married  Lord  Harold  Beaumont,  the  younger  son  of  the 
Earl  of  Mount  Avon.  Maud  Vivian  was  not  likely  to  marry 
anybody,  but  it  was  a  lovely  name. 

"  Maud  Vivian — sounds  like  one  o'  them  stage  names,"  was 
Mrs.  Jackson's  comment.  "  That  ain't  my  affair,  though.  I 
guess  you're  a  decent  girl ;  if  you  ain't  you  don't  stay,  that's 
all.  You  better  see  your  room,  an'  put  on  some  other  clo'es, 
an'  let  me  hang  these  down  here  to  dry  off.  Another  thing — 
you'll  have  to  pay  in  advance — you  know  you  said  you  would," 
added  Mrs.  Jackson,  hurriedly.  "  You  see,  of  course,  a  poor 
woman  like  me — " 

"  It's  quite  right,"  interrupted  Maud,  pulling  the  money  from 
her  pocket.  "  I  might  forget  and  spend  it ;  I  ain't  used  to  hav- 
ing so  much."  She  laughed  rather  bitterly  as  she  followed  her 
new  landlady  up-stairs. 

But  if  Maud  had  thought  that  her  troubles  were  over  she  was 
soon  convinced  of  her  mistake.  She  spent  several  dreary  days 
in  trying  to  find  employment.  In  most  cases  she  was  dismissed 
with  a  curt  refusal.  Sometimes  the  explanation  was  vouchsafed 
that  no  more  help  was  needed  just  at  present,  but  that  in  a 
couple  of  months  or  so,  when  the  holiday  trade  set  in,  there 
might  possibly  be  a  chance  for  her.  A  couple  of  months !  and 
meanwhile  how  was  she  to  live  on  nothing  ?  On  the  morning 
of  the  fourth  day  she  had  just  ten  cents  left.  She  had  eaten 
very  frugally,  in  spite  of  a  healthy  appetite,  but  somehow  or 

228 


other  her  money  had  dwindled  away,  and  now  she  had  but  ten 
cents,  and  this  she  spent  on  her  way  down-town  for  a  cup  of 
coffee  and  a  sandwich.  She  vaguely  wondered  as  she  ate  where 
her  next  meal  would  come  from.  There  was  no  one  to  whom 
she  could  go.  She  had  few  acquaintances  among  the  girls  who 
lived  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Arragon  Street.  She  had  always 
rather  despised  them,  and  they  in  turn  had  stigmatized  her  as 
"  a  stuck-up  thing."  The  girl  whom  she  had  known  best,  and 
whom  she  had  really  been  fond  of,  had  disappeared  from  home 
two  years  ago.  Nothing  was  now  definitely  known  of  her 
whereabouts,  but  it  was  understood  that  she  had  "  gone  to  the 
bad  ;"  such  disappearances  were  not  uncommon.  Poor  Jenny  ! 
she  wasn't  a  bad  sort,  Maud  had  often  said.  She  was  thinking 
of  Jenny  now  as  she  walked  down  Washington  Street  in  the 
warm,  bright  September  morning.  Was  she  still  alive  and  still 
in  the 'city?  she  wondered.  And  then  Maud  remembered  how 
once  she  had  asked  Baretta  why  she  herself  should  be  any  bet- 
ter than  the  rest?  Jenny  at  least  must  have  plenty  to  eat,  what- 
ever else  she  had  lost.  Oh  no  !  the  sacrifice  was  too  great;  she 
would  resist  that  temptation,  no  matter  what  happened.  It 
made  her  sick  with  loathing  to  think  of  the  lives  which  girls  like 
that  must  lead.  And  yet  how  was  one  who  could  get  no  work 
to  live  ?  She  had  no  better  success  this  morning  than  before  ; 
it  was  the  same  answer  everywhere.  She  wandered  about  until 
long  past  noon,  when  she  grew  too  faint  and  tired  to  wander  far- 
ther. How  hungry  she  was  !  and  yet  she  had  no  money,  and 
no  prospect  of  any.  She  tramped  wearily,  through  Temple 
Place  to  the  Common,  where  she  flung  herself  down  upon  one 
of  the  benches  in  a  mood  of  utter  despair.  What  was  to  be- 
come of  her  now  ?  Perhaps  Mrs.  Jackson  might  give  her  some 
dinner;  the  woman  was  kind-hearted  in  spite  of  her  repellent 
manner.  But  she  could  not  ask  that,  because  if  she  did  the 
whole  truth  would  come  out,  and  then  at  the  end  of  the  week 
she  would  be  homeless  as  well  as  hungry.  Oh,  it  was  hard — it 
was  very  hard !  The  tears  came  to  her  eyes  as  she  sat  there. 

Presently  she  rose,  holding  to  the  bench  for  a  moment  to 
steady  herself — the  intensity  of  her  hunger  made  her  dizzy — 
and  looking  vaguely  about  her,  as  if  some  modern  miracle  might 

229 


be  performed  to  release  her  from  her  anxieties.  And  perhaps 
it  was  a  kind  of  miracle  that  a  woman  passing  by  should  stop, 
with  a  curious  look  of  inquiry,  of  uncertainty,  and  then  sudden- 
ly step  forward  and  take  her  by  the  arm.  "  I  guess  you're  sick, 
ain't  you  ?"  the  woman  said. 

"Thank  you  —  I  can  get  on  all  right,"  replied  Maud.  The 
voice  seemed  familiar  to  her,  but  she  did  not  look  up.  She  had 
been  pitying  herself  intensely,  but  somehow  she  instantly  re- 
sented pity  from  another. 

"  You  don't  know  me,  do  you  ?  Well,  I  don't  blame  you," 
continued  the  woman  with  a  harsh  laugh,  dropping  her  arm. 

"  Jenny  !"  cried  Maud,  lifting  her  eyes  and  recognizing  the 
girl  of  whom  she  had  been  thinking  only  a  little  time  before. 

"  Oh,  you  do  know  me  !"  said  Jenny,  laughing  again.  "  I'll 
go,  I  guess,  before  you  take  that  back." 

"  No  —  don't  go,"  said  Maud,  faintly,  as  Jenny  turned  her 
back,  "  I — I  never  said  any  harm  of  you — I  never  thought  you 
meant  it — "  and  here  she  sank  upon  the  bench  again  and  began 
to  cry. 

"  Here,  now,  you  come  along  with  me  !"  Jenny  spoke  roughly, 
but  there  was  no  nnkindness  in  her  voice  or  manner  as  she  took 
Maud  by  the  arm  and  led  her  along  the  Mall.  She  thought  she 
knew  what  that  crying  meant.  So  poor  Maud,  who  had  thought 
herself  so  fine,  had  made  a  slip,  too !  Jenny's  mouth  curled 
sarcastically.  It  seemed  very  dreadful  now  t6  the  girl,  but  she 
would  soon  get  used  to  it,  as  she  herself  had  done.  The  times 
were  few  when  Jenny  allowed  herself  to  experience  any  feelings 
of  regret ;  at  those  times  she  was  sure  to  get  into  a  maudlin 
state,  the  result  of  gin  rather  than  of  tears,  which  in  sober  mo- 
ments she  saw  to  be  very  silly.  A  girl  in  her  business  needed 
to  have  all  her  wits  about  her. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  asked  Maud,  at  last. 

"  To  dinner,  and  you're  to  have  a  bite  with  me." 

"  Oh,  but  I  can't — I'm  not  hungry,  really — I  have  something 
to  do—" 

"  Look  here,  Maudie  !"  interrupted  Jenny,  brusquely,  "  I  know 
I  ain't  the  kind  of  a  girl  you  want  to  be  seen  with — yet.  But 
you're  the  first  one  of  the  whole  lot  that's  spoke  to  me  decent, 

230 


and  I'm  going  to  look  out  for  you — damned  if  I  ain't.  There — • 
I  didn't  mean  to  swear,  but  it  comes  natural  nowadays,"  she 
added,  with  a  grim  smile.  "  And  I  guess  you  can't  fool  me  by 
telling  me  you  ain't  hungry.  So  come  along  !" 

And  Maud  could  resist  no  longer.  All  power  of  resistance 
seemed  to  be  taken  from  her  by  that  deadly  faintness  ;  she 
walked  blindly  on,  hardly  conscious  of  any  volition  in  the  mat- 
ter. "  I  guess  we  might  as  well  have  a  good  lay-out,"  Jenny 
was  saying.  "  I'm  pretty  flush  to-day,  and  I'm  hungry  myself." 
They  had  crossed  Tremont  Street,  and  were  now  making  their 
way  along  a  narrow  alley  that  led  from  Temple  Place  to  Winter 
Street.  After  passing  by  a  gorgeous  bar-room  they  came  to  a 
door  marked  "  Ladies'  Entrance,"  which  Jenny  pushed  open 
with  a  familiar  air.  A  flight  of  stairs  led  to  the  floor  above. 

"  Look  here  !"  said  a  waiter  as  they  reached  the  landing,  fac- 
ing them  as  if  to  prevent  them  from  advancing  farther. 

"Don't  you  be  so  fresh  !"  retorted  Jenny,  sharply.  "  Me  and 
my  lady  friend  want  some  dinner.  That's  straight."  She 
laughed,  and  brushing  by  him  entered  a  small  room  at  the  right 
where  a  table  was  set  for  two.  "  It  ain't  any  of  your  business," 
she  added,  turning  defiantly  to  the  waiter,  who  had  followed 
them. 

It  was  like  a  dream  to  Maud,  and  she  half-expected  to  awake 
from  it  and  find  herself  hungry  and  miserable  again.  She  had 
a  guilty  feeling  that  she  ought  not  to  be  here — that  association 
with  a  girl  like  Jenny  was  degrading  j  perhaps  once  she,  too, 
would  have  passed  her  by  with  a  shrug  and  a  sneer.  But  a  few 
kind  words  were  too  much  for  any  pride  she  might  have  cher- 
ished upon  this  point.  And  everything  tasted  so  good !  She 
did  not  know  what  she  was  eating ;  she  still  felt  dazed,  half  be- 
tween sleeping  and  waking  ;  but  it  tasted  good.  The  wine 
which  Jenny  ordered,  too — Maud  had  never  drunk  wine  before, 
and  she  could  not  classify  it  more  specifically — somehow  warmed 
and  cheered  her,  although  she  sipped  it  reluctantly  and  really 
did  not  like  it  at  all.  To  be  eating  dinner  here  with  Jenny,  a 
girl  who  had  gone  to  the  bad  !  She  could  not  understand  it  at 
all ;  nor  could  she  afterwards  understand  how  it  was  she  was 
led  to  tell  Jenny  her  story.  Jenny  cried  a  little — perhaps  she 

231 


had  been  drinking  rather  more  than  was  good  for  her  —  and 
swore  several  times  with  a  good  deal  of  vehemence.  Then  she 
tried  to  make  Maud  take  some  money,  which  Maud  persistently 
refused  to  do. 

"  I  guess  you  think  'twas  got  in  a  bad  way,"  said  Jenny,  at 
last.  "  Well,  I'm  bad  and  you  ain't,"  she  went  on,  sobbing 
again.  "Don't  you  give  in  —  no,  never,  so  long  as  you 
live.  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  how  different  it  is  ?  Who 
cares  for  me  ?"  cried  Jenny,  with  another  oath.  "  What'll  be- 
come of  me  ? — tell  me  that.  Why,  I  ain't  good  enough  for  you 
to  take  my  money — am  I,  Maudie  ?  Don't  touch  me ;  it  might 
spoil  you."  She  rang  the  bell,  and  then  filled  her  glass  again 
and  drained  it  at  a  single  gulp.  "  Gimme  a  piece  of  paper  and 
a  pencil,"  she  said  to  the  waiter.  "  Come,  freshy,  don't  stand 
staring  at  me.  Don't  you  know  a  real  lady  when  you  see  one  ? 
You're  too  damn  fresh,  you  are.  I  want  to  give  you  my  ad- 
dress, Maudie.  I  don't  live  there,  but  they'll  always  know 
where  I  am.  Oh,  of  course  I  ain't  fit  to  be  seen  talkin'  with 
you  now,  but  the  time  may  come — I  hope  it  won't !  I  hope  it 
won't !"  And  she  began  to  cry  again. 

This  outburst  rather  frightened  Maud,  and  it  also  had  the 
effect  of  making  her  realize  her  position.  That  she  should 
have  been  eating  dinner  with  Jenny  !  a  girl  to  whom  no  decent 
person  would  speak !  It  was  a  humiliating  thought,  and  Maud 
flushed  scarlet  as  she  fell  back  towards  the  door,  where  she 
stood  looking  uneasily  at  her  companion. 

"  Go,  go  !"  screamed  Jenny.  "  I  don't  want  to  see  you  again. 
What  are  you  staring  at  me  for  ?" 

"  Oh,  Jenny  !"  cried  Maud,  not  wishing  to  part  in  anger  from 
one  who  had,  after  all,  been  kind  to  her.  But  Jenny  would  pay 
no  attention,  and,  after  a  moment  of  hesitation,  Maud  went  down 
the  stairs  to  the  street  alone,  feeling  very  miserable  indeed. 
"  To  come  to  that !"  she  said  to  herself  after  a  time.  The  din- 
ner which  she  had  eaten  seemed  somehow  to  choke  her.  Oh, 
better  to  be  hungry,  to  be  homeless,  to  endure  anything  rather 
than  come  to  that !  thought  Maud,  with  a  sob. 

She  went  back  to  the  Common  and  wandered  aimlessly  about 
for  a  time.  Then  she  heard  the  clock  on  Park  Street  Church 

232 


strike  three,  and  awoke  with  a  start  to  the  fact  that  the  day  was 
passing,  and  that  she  was  in  reality  no  better  off  now  than  she 
had  been  in  the  morning.  She  turned  in  the  direction  of 
Washington  Street  once  more,  and  after  a  few  more  fruitless  in- 
quiries at  the  smaller  shops,  went  in  a  desperate  mood  to  the 
one  large  dry-goods  establishment  which  she  had  left  untried. 
She  asked  with  a  listless  air  for  the  manager,  and  was  hustled 
by  a  surging  crowd  from  one  man  to  another,  until  at  last,  in 
one  corner  of  the  vast  building,  some  one  came  out  from  behind 
a  railing  and  began  to  question  her. 

"Come  round  at  eight  to-morrow  morning  —  eight  sharp, 
mind — and  try  it,"  said  this  man  in  a  peremptory  tone,  and  with 
a  suddenness  that  wellnigh  took  her  breath  away.  "  It  isn't 
often  we  give  a  girl  such  a  chance  as  that,  but  you  " — he  gave 
her  a  rather  insolent  leer  as  he  spoke — "  you'll  do  pretty  well,  I 
guess.  Four  dollars  a  week — beginning  to-rnorrow  morning." 

"  Four  dollars !"  said  Maud.  It  was  better  than  starvation, 
but  it  seemed  so  little  when  one  had  no  home  to  go  to.  "  I 
suppose,"  she  added,  timidly,  "  that  if  I  do  well — " 

"  Four  dollars  a  week  as  long  as  you  stay — or  we  keep  you. 
If  that  don't  suit  you  " — here  he  leered  at  her  again — "  you'll 
have  to  find  some  friend." 

"  Some  friend  2"  repeated  Maud.  "  What  do  you  mean  by 
that?" 

The  man  laughed.  "  As  pretty  a  girl  as  you  ought  to  know 
what  I  mean,"  he  said,  as  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked 
away. 

233 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
BARONIAL  HOSPITALITY 

"You  shall  leaf  it  all  to  me:  I  know — I  know!"  said  the 
Baron  Smolzow's  confidential  adviser,  authoritatively.  "  Your 
fronts  come  to  see  you — they  will  find  you  a  great  man.  Eh, 
bienf  It  ees  so  you  shall  receif  them.  Haf  you  not  reason  to 
trust  me  ?  to  do  what  I  tell  you  ?  I  haf  made  you  Baron  Smol- 
zow,  and  I  am  notings.  Ees  that  not  true  ?" 

"  Well,  you  have  reminded  me  of  it  often  enough,"  retorted 
-Baretta,  ungraciously.  "  But  see  here,  I  don't  think  you  ought 
to  be  around  when  they  come.  People  are  so  curious — they 
ask  so  many  questions." 

"  Ho,  ho  !"  laughed  his  father.  "  You  veesh  to  hide  me  away 
— you  veesh  dem  not  to  spik  with  me." 

"There's  no  good  in  running  any  risk,"  said  the  young  man, 
scowling.  "  I've  never  thought  much  of  your  appearing  in  the 
matter  at  all." 

"  And  vare  vould  you  haf  been  ?  It  vas  der  old  frent  of  your 
fader  who  brought  you  papers — who  told  you  he  vas  tedt,  and 
you  were  his  son.  His  old  frent,  zat  you  are  helping  from  the 
gootness  of  your  heart,  nicht  wahr  ?" 

"  Well,  well !"  said  Baretta,  impatiently.  "  There's  no  good 
in  going  into  all  that  again.  Of  course  you  will  do  as  you  like 
— as  you  think  best.  Only  it's  as  much  for  your  advantage  as 
for  mine  that  no  one  should  even  suspect — " 

"  Jawokl,"  interrupted  the  older  man  calmly,  "  it  ees  to  my  ad- 
vantage. I  understand.  And  I  vill  do  as  I  like ;  oh,  yes,  I  vill  do 
as  I  like."  He  hovered  about  the  door  a  moment  with  a  bland  but 
suggestive  smile ;  then  he  went  out,  closing  it  softly  behind  him. 

234 


"  Confound  him  !"  muttered  Baretta.  His  impotence  was 
very  galling.  He  felt  that  he  no  longer  had  the  direction  of 
his  own  career.  When  he  had  made  that  compact  with  his 
father  he  had  sold  himself  into  perpetual  slavery.  The  king- 
doms of  the  world  were  his,  but  he  had  bent  the  knee  to  Satan. 
A  man  cannot  always  get  on  without  making  sacrifices  which 
cost  as  much  as  the  prize  is  worth.  There  were  times  when 
Baron  Smolzow  was  inclined  to  recall  with  envy  Francis  Baretta, 
who  had  lived  in  a  mean  little  room  in  Arragon  Street.  The 
Baron  had  some  very  handsome  apartments.  They  were  quite 
as  good  as  those  of  Yates's,  which  had  once  aroused  in  him 
feelings  of  bitter  envy ;  and  they  were  in  a  more  fashionable 
neighbourhood.  Even  Manchester  Square  was  not  a  suitable 
place  for  a  man  of  his  rank  and  prospective  wealth.  His  private 
secretary,  his  confidential  adviser,  who  had  been  the  means  of 
enabling  him  to  substantiate  his  claim,  had  at  once  advised  the 
change.  The  good  Herr  Emil,  who  was  as  deeply  attached  to 
Francis  Baretta  as  he  had  been  to  Paul,  had  argued  with  much 
force  that  if  he  wanted  people  to  accept  him  as  a  baron  he  must 
live  like  one ;  and  he  had  answered  the  young  man's  objections 
on  the  ground  of  expense  by  saying  that  he  himself  would  look 
out  for  that.  Of  course  there  was  great  force  in  this  reasoning, 
but,  after  all,  one  must  have  money.  Baretta  was  doing  very 
well  just  now  with  his  lectures  and  his  newspaper  work.  But 
money  goes  rapidly  when  one  has  a  private  secretary  whose 
physician  insists  upon  his  drinking  whiskey,  and  who  smokes 
countless  cigars  and  is  inclined  to  be  fastidious  about  his  diet. 
It  was  exasperating  to  have  to  supply  such  luxuries,  but,  under 
the  circumstances,  remonstrance  was  both  useless  and  impolitic. 
How,  then,  with  this  drain  upon  his  resources,  could  Baretta 
afford  to  abandon  his  room  in  Manchester  Square  for  a  suite  in 
Huntington  Avenue  ?  "  You  vill  haf  the  money — some  day," 
said  the  pertinacious  Herr  Emil. 

The  new  rooms — there  was  a  study  and  a  bedroom,  with  a 
bath-room  between — were  furnished  very  comfortably  indeed, 
and  all  through  the  indefatigable  exertions  of  Herr  Emil ;  noth- 
ing, in  his  opinion,  was  too  good  for  the  heir  of  the  noble  house 
of  Smolzow.  Herr  Emil,  in  a  new  suit  of  black,  was  a  very  re- 

235 


spectable  looking  person  indeed,  and  he  had  the  most  insinuat- 
ing manners.  Thanks  to  the  newspapers  he  was  almost  as  well 
known  as  the  Baron  himself.  His  career  had  been  a  strange 
and  interesting  one.  Like  the  cousin  of  the  late  Baron,  he  had 
fled  from  his  native  land  in  1848  because  of  complicity  in  the 
Kossuth  rebellion.  He  was  of  humble  extraction  himself,  but 
he  had  known  Paul  Baretta ;  he  had,  in  fact,  crossed  the  Atlantic 
in  the  same  ship,  and  had  been  a  loyal  friend  to  the  unhappy 
nobleman  in  all  his  subsequent  career,  which  had  not  been 
fortunate.  Penniless  and  unknown,  what  could  a  refugee  ex- 
pect? The  struggle  of  life  in  a  foreign  country  had  been  too 
much  for  Paul  Baretta.  He  had  given  music  lessons  for  a  time 
— he  was  a  fine  performer  on  the  violin  ;  but  even  this  resource 
failed  him  at  last,  and  after  that  there  was  only  want  and  misery. 
But  he  managed  to  live  somehow,  always  attended  by  the  faith- 
ful Emil,  until  the  Civil  War  broke  out,  when  he  hastened  to 
offer  his  services  to  the  country  which  had  done  so  little  for 
him.  He  was  a  brave  soldier,  and  he  fell  at  Antietam,  desper- 
ately wounded.  Emil  had  nursed  him  back  to  life,  but  his  con- 
stitution was  shattered,  and  he  was  never  the  same  man  again. 
He  fell  in  love,  however,  with  a  poor  American  girl  in  New 
York — or  perhaps  she  fell  in  love  with  him  ;  at  all  events,  they 
were  married,  and  presently  a  son  was  born  to  them.  Two 
years  after  Paul  Baretta  died,  and  within  six  months  his  wife 
followed  him  to  the  grave.  He  had  left  mother  and  child  to 
Emil's  care,  and  had  also  confided  to  him  the  papers  which  dis- 
closed his  identity,  the  photographs  of  himself  and  his  family, 
the  marriage  certificate,  the  proofs  of  the  birth  of  his  son.  He 
had  separated  himself  entirely  from  his  native  land,  but  he  had 
wished  this  son  to  know  his  history,  to  be  able,  in  the  future, 
to  claim  the  privileges  of  his  rank.  Herr  Emil  had  endeavoured 
to  be  faithful  to  his  trust ;  he  had  cared  for  the  heir  of  the 
house  of  Smolzow ;  he  had  taken  Baretta's  name,  and  taught  the 
child  to  call  him  father,  thinking  it  best  to  conceal  from  him 
for  a  time  the  secret  of  his  birth.  But  one  day,  alas  !  the  little 
Francis  strayed  away,  and  no  amount  of  search  availed  to  dis- 
cover him.  Herr  Emil  had  been  frantic  with  grief,  but  presently 
he  was  forced  to  conclude  that  Francis  was  dead.  And  then, 

236 


years  after,  this  story  of  the  young  man  who  thought  he  must 
be  the  son  of  Paul  Baretta  had  come  out  in  the  papers.  It  was 
all  very  wonderful,  but  the  evidence  was  complete.  All  that 
Francis  had  to  do  was  to  account  for  the  interval  between  his 
disappearance  when  he  was  ten  years  old  and  his  reappearance 
at  twelve  as  a  friendless  youth  seeking  employment.  The  ex- 
planation was  that  he  had  not  been  lost,  as  the  good  Herr  Emil 
had  fancied,  but  that  he  had  run  away,  fired  with  a  boyish  love 
of  adventure ;  and  when,  afterwards,  he  came  to  realize  his 
folly,  it  was  too  late  to  mend  it.  As  to  the  identity  of  the 
young  man  of  twenty-five  with  the  boy  of  ten,  Herr  Emil  had 
his  photograph,  taken  at  the  age  of  nine,  in  which  the  resem- 
blance was  quite  obvious.  There  might  be  some  missing  links 
which  the  legal  mind,  which  is  always  hard  to  convince,  would 
insist  on  recovering;  but  no  fair-minded  man,  surely,  would 
question  that  Francis  Baretta  was  the  son  of  Paul  Baretta,  and 
therefore  now  Baron  Smolzow.  Herr  Emil  had  made  it  all  very 
clear,  and  consequently  Herr  Emil  was  something  of  a  personage 
in  his  way,  too.  His  coming  forward  to  devote  himself  to  the 
son  of  his  old  friend  and  master  was  a  touching  proof  of  his 
fidelity.  He  had  a  lively  recollection  of  the  glories  of  the 
Smolzows  and  the  splendours  of  their  ancestral  estates  at 
Bataszek.  And  it  would  all  be  so  soon  the  possession  of  this 
young  man !  No  wonder  that  tradesmen  smilingly  furnished 
the  supplies  necessary  for  the  maintenance  of  baronial  state 
and  did  not  press  for  the  payment  of  their  bills.  Herr  Emil 
always  dressed  in  black,  as  we  have  said,  and  was  a  most  re- 
spectable-looking man.  Besides,  the  Baron  was  received  every- 
where— in  the  very  best  homes  in  the  city.  It  was  worth  while 
to  have  such  a  customer. 

Baretta  had  to  admit  that  his  father's  assistance  had  been  in- 
valuable, although  he  did  so  with  a  very  bad  grace.  It  was  not 
agreeable  to  discover  that  there  was  another  person  in  the  world 
almost  as  clever  as  one's  self.  Perhaps  from  a  strictly  intel- 
lectual point  of  view  his  father  was  not  clever  at  all ;  he  could 
not  have  delivered  lectures  on  Socialism,  nor  would  he  ever  have 
been  admitted  to  the  best  houses.  But  his  powers  of  imagina- 
tion and  invention  were  very  great,  and  it  is  doubtful  if  his  son 

237 


would  have  got  on  very  well  at  this  period  of  his  career  without 
him.  As  a  confidential  adviser  Herr  Emil  was  unsurpassable. 
Such  is  the  ingratitude  of  the  human  heart,  however,  that  his 
presence  annoyed  and  vexed  the  Baron  extremely,  who  was  im- 
patient of  authority,  as  an  ardent  Socialist  ought  to  be.  Every- 
thing, Herr  Emil  thought,  must  be  left  to  him  ;  and  although 
the  young  man  might  resent  his  interference,  he  inevitably  sub- 
mitted in  the  end.  What  else,  indeed,  was  there  for  him  to  do  ? 
It  was  not  once  only  that  his  father  had  told  him  he  would  do 
as  he  liked.  Quarrelling  was  useless ;  besides,  his  father  was 
too  obstinate  even  to  quarrel.  Sometimes  when  he  was  alone 
Baretta  would  break  forth  in  wild  fits  of  anger,  cursing  the  folly 
that  had  led  him  to  barter  his  independence  even  for  the  sake 
of  making  good  his  new  pretensions.  But  it  was  too  late  now 
for  repentance ;  that  he  realized  fully.  Perhaps,  after  all,  he 
would  not  have  repented  in  any  case,  although  it  was  a  kind  of 
gratification  to  his  conscience  to  think  so. 

However,  the  satisfaction  of  having  handsomely  furnished 
rooms  and  of  getting  one's  acquaintances  to  come  there  to  drink 
tea  was  something  which  could  not  be  taken  from  him,  and  which 
was  in  a  way  infinitely  consoling.  Mrs.  Tom  Gregorson  had  sug- 
gested the  idea  to  the  young  man.  Mrs.  Tom  had  rather  made 
fun  of  him  when  he  was  presented  to  her  at  Mrs.  Cadwallader's ; 
she  had  even  pretended  not  to  know  who  Mrs.  Chilton  was — Mrs. 
Laura  Hastings  Chilton,  Baretta  had  said,  impressively.  But  he 
had  interested  her,  and  taking  him  up — which  was  the  phrase 
she  used — promised  to  give  her  a  new  sensation  ;  and  she  liked 
in  any  case  to  be  gracious  to  the  lion  of  the  hour.  Society  bored 
Mrs.  Tom  ;  it  had  so  little  variety,  it  was  so  commonplace.  And 
the  proofs  that  Baretta  was  Baron  Smolzow  were  so  substantial 
that  there  seemed  to  be  no  possibility  of  making  a  mistake  in 
encouraging  him. 

"  Would  you  come  ?"  asked  Baretta,  when  she  first  suggested 
that  he  ought  to  ask  his  friends  to  those  charming  rooms  of  his 
— of  course  they  must  be  charming,  for  every  one  knew  what 
good  taste  he  had. 

"  Oh,  that  is  quite  another  matter,"  said  Mrs.  Tom,  smiling. 
"It  would  depend  upon  whom  else  you  asked." 

238 


"  I  would  leave  that  to  you,"  he  said. 

"You  want  too  much  ;  I  couldn't  think  of  it." 

"  But  you  will  come  ?     I  shall  be  doing  it  for  your  sake." 

"You  are  a  very  audacious  young  man,"  said  Mrs.  Tom.  "I 
don't  think  I  ought  to  promise  you  anything.  One  has  to  be 
very  careful  about  the  people  one  meets." 

"Of  course,  if  you  think  my  friends  are  not  good  enough — " 

"  Oh,  you  are  delightfully  rude  !"  she  cried.  But  in  the  end 
she  promised  to  come,  and  Baretta  went  away,  not  knowing 
whether  to  feel  angry  or  gratified.  He  thought  it  was  she  who 
had  been  rude. 

He  was  decidedly  ill  at  ease  when  the  afternoon  arrived.  What 
his  father  might  do  was  a  source  of  no  little  anxiety  to  him.  He 
knew  that  his  father's  help  had  been  useful  to  him,  but  he  did  not 
want  him  in  the  way  when  Mrs.  Gregorson  came.  There  was  never 
any  telling  what  he  might  say  or  do.  Baretta  felt  that  the  worst 
thing  which  could  happen  to  him  was  to  be  made  ridiculous ;  he 
took  himself  very  seriously,  and  he  wanted  others  to  do  the  same. 
It  was  useless,  however,  to  make  suggestions ;  his  father  invari- 
ably ignored  them.  Fortunately,  on  this  occasion,  the  respect- 
able Herr  Emil  saw  that  it  was  his  duty  to  remain  in  the  back- 
ground. His  role  was  that  of  the  humble  retainer  of  the  noble 
house  of  Smolzow.  When  the  first  of  the  Baron's  guests  ap- 
peared Herr  Emil  withdrew  deferentially  to  the  inner  room,  ap- 
pearing now  and  then  on  the  threshold  with  an  apologetic  cough 
and  a  look  of  inquiry  at  his  young  master.  Nothing  could  have 
been  more  impressive — more  in  keeping  with  the  traditions  of  a 
great  family. 

"  Your  secretary  is  a  most  remarkable  man,"  observed  Mr.  Or- 
rin  Fox  Allen,  who  was  among  the  early  comers.  Mr.  Allen  had 
once  told  Yates  that  the  Baron  was  a  cad,  but  nevertheless  he 
felt  immensely  interested  in  him.  "  I  can't  help  thinking  how 
odd  it  is,"  he  added,  "  that  he  should  have  found  you  out  after 
all  these  years." 

"  Odd  !"  exclaimed  Baretta.  "  What  should  there  be  odd 
about  it  ?  Every  one  read  the  story  in  the  newspapers." 

"  Ah,  I  dare  say.  Still,  it  was  a  coincidence,  you  know.  Miss 
Lawrence  looks  charming  this  afternoon,  doesn't  she  ?  I  must 

239 


ask  her  to  give  me  a  cup  of  tea,  by-and-by.  It's  very  strange, 
but  that  man's  face  seems  somehow  familiar  to  me — your  secre- 
tary's, I  mean." 

"  I  don't  know  where  you  could  have  seen  him,"  said  Baretta, 
scowling.  For  the  first  time  the  dread  of  possible  discovery 
chilled  him  to  the  heart.  Of  course  there  was  a  resemblance  ; 
he  had  traced  his  own  features  in  his  father's  on  the  evening  of 
their  first  meeting.  What  a  fool  he  was  to  run  any  risks  !  After 
Mr.  Allen  left  him,  to  speak  to  some  one  else,  he  moved  towards 
the  doorway,  where  his  father  was  still  standing.  "  You  must 
be  careful,"  he  said. 

"Careful?     For  vat ?" 

"  They  will  see  who  you  are — they  will  think  we  look  alike." 

"  Pouf  !  vat  a  coward  you  are  !"  muttered  Herr  Emil.  "  I 
shall  do  vat  I  bleese,"  he  added. 

Baretta  could  not  say  more  then  and  there,  although  he  ground 
his  teeth  in  helpless  rage.  What  was  the  good  of  making  the 
struggle,  only  to  be  defeated  at  last  by  such  folly  as  this  ?  He 
turned  to  meet  Mrs.  Gregorson,  who  had  just  made  her  appear- 
ance, with  a  rather  forced  smile.  Mrs.  Gregorson  had  nodded 
to  Miss  Lawrence  at  the  tea-table,  and  to  one  or  two  others  whom 
she  knew,  and  now  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room  with  a  look 
of  bland  expectancy. 

"  This  is  indeed  an  honour,"  said  the  young  man,  bowing. 
He  felt  very  nervous,  now  that  this  gre#t  lady  was  actually  his 
guest,  and  he  pulled  forward  a  chair  with  an  air  of  perturbation 
which  the  accident  of  stumbling  over  a  rug  did  not  diminish. 

"  Who  are  all  these  people  ?  Do  I  know  them  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Gregorson,  putting  up  her  lorgnette  as  she  sank  back  among  the 
cushions.  "  Oh,  there  is  Mr.  Allen.  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Al- 
len?" she  added,  as  that  gentleman  drifted  in  her  direction. 
"  Isn't  it  charming  of  the  Baron  to  ask  us  all  ?  Do  you  really 
know  any  one  here  ?"  As  she  asked  this  question  she  let  her 
voice  sink  to  a  whisper. 

"  Oh,  one  or  two  of  them,"  said  Mr.  Allen,  with  a  laugh.  This 
part  of  the  conversation  did  not  reach  Baretta's  ears,  but  he  was 
quick  to  suspect  that  they  were  talking  of  him.  He  felt  humil- 
iated and  insulted,  but  he  did  not  know  how  to  resent  their  con- 

240 


duct.  So  he  remained  standing  near  Mrs.  Gregorson's  chair,  cast- 
ing uneasy  glances  at  his  other  guests,  who  had  separated  into 
groups  of  twos  or  threes,  and  who  had  apparently  quite  forgot- 
ten his  existence. 

"  Is  that  Mrs.  Chilton  ?"  continued  Mrs.  Gregorson.  "  Oh, 
she  is  matronizing  the  affair  —  or  chaperoning  —  which  is 
the  word  those  dreadful  society  papers  use?  How  disap- 
pointing !  She  doesn't  look  at  all  like  a  woman  who  writes 
poetry." 

"  How  should  people  who  write  poetry  look  ?  You  know  I'm 
guilty  of  that." 

"  Oh,  well,  with  a  man  it's  different.  They  say  the  Baron  is 
greatly  interested  in  Miss  Lawrence.  It  looks  that  way,  doesn't 
it,  when  she  pours  tea  for  him  ?  I  don't  remember  the  pretty 
girl  with  her.  Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake,  Mr.  Allen,  here's  that  tire- 
some Mrs.  Stanwood  coming.  Don't  deliver  me  up  a  prey  to 
her ;  she  would  really  talk  one  to  death." 

Baretta,  finding  that  Mrs.  Gregorson  was  so  interested  in  her 
conversation  with  Mr.  Allen  that  she  turned  her  back  to  him, 
went  over  to  the  table  where  Miss  Lawrence  was  sitting.  The 
pretty  girl  with  her  was  Annie  Linley,  a  younger  sister  of  the 
learned  Georgiana — just  "  out,"  and  with  no  ambition  beyond 
securing  plenty  of  masculine  attention.  "I  don't  think  it's 
much  of  a  success,"  he  said,  gloomily.  "  You're  kind  to  stand 
by  me,  anyway." 

"  Not  when  Mrs.  Tom  has  come  ?"  asked  Annie,  with  a  pert 
little  grimace. 

"  Well,  she's  interested  in  Mr.  Allen  more  than  any  one  else," 
said  Baretta,  bluntly. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  you  quite  understand,"  said  Mildred,  gen- 
tly, meaning  to  soften  his  wounded  pride,  and  yet  fearing  to  of- 
fend him.  "  One  always  neglects  some  one  unintentionally 
where  there  are  so  many.  Won't  you  take  a  cup  of  tea  to  her  ?" 
added  Mildred,  looking  up  at  him  and  smiling. 

"  Oh  yes,"  he  said.  Then  he  suddenly  bent  forward  and 
murmured  in  her  ear,  "  You  are  always  kind ;  I  thank  you — you 
shall  not  find  me  ungrateful." 

"You  make  too  much  of  it,"  said  Mildred,  more  gravely.    She 

Q  241 


was  a  little  vexed  by  this  demonstration ;  it  looked  so  absurd 
that  he  should  assume  before  a  whole  room  full  of  people  that 
he  had  something  to  say  to  her  alone. 

"  The  Baron  is  coming  to  Cambridge  next  week,"  said  Annie 
Linley,  as  he  took  the  cup  and  moved  away.  "  Mamma  is  inter- 
ested in  that  stuff  about  the  rights  of  the  poor,  but  I  think  it's 
perfectly  silly,  don't  you  ?" 

"  No,  it  isn't  silly,"  said  Mildred.  "  One  ought  to  have  more 
sympathy  with  poor  people  and  make  their  lives  easier.  That 
is  what  papa  is  always  saying." 

"  Oh,  your  father !  Every  one  knows  how  much  good  he 
does.  But  getting  the  poor  to  kill  the  rich  is  quite  another 
thing,  I  should  say." 

"Whatever  put  that  into  your  head?  Does  Baron  Smolzow 
look  as  if  he  wished  to  kill  anybody  ?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  they  want,  and  I  don't  care  much," 
said  Annie.  "Georgy  can  tell  you  more  about  such  things. 
There  she  is,  laying  down  the  law  to  the  Baron  now.  Goodness 
gracious  !  here  are  four  men  all  at  once.  Oh,  Mr.  Cadwallader," 
she  said,  shaking  her  head  playfully,  "I  can't  let  you  have 
any  tea  unless  you  promise  to  be  good." 

Baretta  was  not  so  much  interested,  however,  in  the  conversa- 
tion of  Annie's  sister  as  to  be  oblivious  of  what  was  going  on 
around  him ;  and  when  he  saw  Mrs.  Gregorson  rise  from  her 
chair,  he  excused  himself  and  hastened  to  intercept  her.  "  I — 
I  want  you  to  meet  Mrs.  Chilton,"  he  said. 

"  How  rude  you  have  been !"  said  Mrs.  Gregorson.  "  How 
you  have  neglected  me  !" 

"  But,  really — "  he  began,  taken  aback  by  this  salutation. 

"  Oh,  don't  think  I  blame  you,"  she  interrupted,  thinking 
what  a  very  stupid  young  man  he  was ;  an  impossible  person, 
even  for  a  baron,  she  said  afterwards.  "  You  know  what  Ham- 
let said  to  his  mother  when  he  was  lying  at  Ophelia's  feet.  Mrs. 
Chilton  ?  I  have  never  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Mrs.  Chil- 
ton." The  two  ladies  bowed,  each  rather  distantly,  and  Mrs. 
Gregorson  added,  "  I  have  often  heard  Baron  Smolzow  speak  of 
yon." 

"  Indeed  !"  said  Mrs.  Chilton,  coldly.     She  thought  that  Mrs. 

242 


Gregorson  intended  the  remark  to  be  disagreeable — to  imply 
that  her  literary  reputation  was  unworthy  the  attention  of  so 
exalted  a  person. 

Baretta  did  not  understand  the  meaning  of  Mrs.  Chilton's 
"  Indeed  !"  and  thought  she  was  rather  ungracious ;  but  as  Mr. 
Cadwallader  came  up  at  this  moment  nothing  further  was  said. 
Mr.  Cadwallader  was  glad  to  find  some  one  he  knew  as  well  as 
he  did  Mrs.  Gregorson.  An  afternoon  tea  was  not  exactly  his 
metier,  and  the  irrelevant  chatter  going  on  all  about  him  bored 
him  extremely,  lie  would  not  have  come  at  all  had  it  not  been 
for  his  wife,  who  was  not  going  herself,  and  who  said  that  the 
family  ought  to  be  represented.  "  I  don't  think  I  take  very 
much  to  Mr.  Yates's  friend,"  Mrs.  Cadwallader  had  said ;  "  but 
one  of  us  ought  to  go."  Thus  it  will  be  seen  that  she  had  put 
upon  Philip  the  responsibility  of  introducing  Baretta,  after  all. 
She  asked  her  husband  that  evening  if  Mr.  Yates  had  been  at 
the  Baron's,  and  expressed  surprise  to  find  that  he  had  not.  It 
did  not  occur  to  her,  of  course,  that  he  would  stay  away  on  Mil- 
dred Lawrence's  account ;  that  was  an  old  story  now,  and  people 
were  near  forgetting  it  entirely.  Baretta  himself,  however, 
was  not  likely  to  forget  it.  He  had  asked  Yates  to  come,  not 
because  he  enjoyed  his  society  in  these  days,  but  because  he 
wished  him  to  be  a  witness  of  his  triumph.  No  one  else,  he 
thought,  would  realize  quite  so  keenly  how  great  that  triumph 
was.  But  he  had  stayed  away,  and  Baretta's  expectations  in 
this  respect  were  unfulfilled.  He  thought  it  was  extremely  dis- 
agreeable of  Yates,  who  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  show  his  jeal- 
ousy so  plainly.  What  would  he  say  now,  to  see  Miss  Law- 
rence in  his  successful  rival's  rooms,  pouring  tea  while  he 
entertained  his  friends  ?  Baretta  glanced  at  her  from  time  to 
time  with  a  swelling  sense  that  she  was  becoming  connected 
with  his  fortunes,  at  least  in  the  minds  of  others,  however  un- 
conscious she  might  be  of  the  relation  herself.  He  was  think- 
ing of  this  when  he  sat  down  by  her  side  after  Mrs.  Gregorson 
had  made  a  triumphal  exit — he  himself  had  seen  her  to  her  car- 
riage, the  door  of  which  his  respectable  secretary  in  black  had 
opened  with  a  very  low  bow — and  asked  her  to  fill  his  cup  once 
more.  "  I  am  living  on  my  nerves  just  now,"  he  said. 

243 


"  But  that  is  a  very  bad  way  to  live,"  answered  Mildred.  "  I 
shall  have  to  turn  lecturer  now." 

"  I  wish  you  would,  Miss  Lawrence.  Nothing  would  be  more 
delightful." 

"  Oh,  you  would  change  your  mind  about  that,"  she  said,  cool- 
ly. "  But  you  shall  have  your  tea  just  the  same,  if  you  won't 
let  me  give  you  chocolate  instead.  Do  you  know,"  she  added, 
"  I  think  you  ought  to  congratulate  yourself.  It  has  been  most 
charming ;  Mrs.  Gregorson  kindly  gave  me  that  piece  of  infor- 
mation." 

"Mrs.  Gregorson !"  repeated  Baretta.  "  I  care  much  more  for 
what  you  think." 

"  Then  you  are  not  as  wise  a  person  as  I  took  you  to  be.  But 
don't  say  such  things,  please." 

Baretta  stirred  his  tea  in  silence  for  a  moment.  Then,  with- 
out looking  up,  he  said :  "  I'm  sorry  my  friend  Yates  didn't 
come.  I  wanted  you  to  meet  him."  Mildred  gave  him  a  quick 
glance,  but  made  no  reply.  "  He's  a  good  sort  of  fellow.  You 
don't  know  him,  do  you  ?  I  thought  you  didn't  when  your  fa- 
ther was  speaking  about  him  the  other  day." 

The  girl  coloured  angrily.  This  was  intentional  impertinence 
on  his  part,  she  thought ;  it  was  not  the  first  time  he  had  talked 
of  Mr.  Yates  in  her  presence,  as  if  he  were  curious  to  know  what 
she  would  say  about  him.  And  yet  she  could  not  resent  it ; 
she  could  not  assume  that  he  knew  anything  whatever  of  their 
past  relations.  "  One  always  knows  every  one  else  here  in 
Boston,"  Mildred  said  at  last,  with  an  air  that  was  unconscious- 
ly haughty ;  "  one  is  a  cousin  or  something  of  the  sort  to  half  of 
them." 

"  I  see,"  he  retorted,  with  a  short  laugh ;  "  that  shuts  me  out." 
He  felt  that  he  was  taking  a  course  which  would  injure  him  in 
her  eyes,  but  his  anger  at  her  repulse  made  him  reckless.  Con- 
found the  pride,  the  narrow  intolerance,  of  these  people  !  he  said 
to  himself.  Was  Baron  Smolzow  a  person  to  be  snubbed  even 
by  the  daughter  of  Sibley  Lawrence  ? 

"You  purposely  misunderstand  me,"  said  Mildred,  in  a  gen- 
tler tone.  She,  too,  felt  that  her  patience  was  being  rather  se- 
verely tried,  but  she  would  not  quarrel  with  him — she  who  was 

244 


his  guest.  "  Isn't  it  getting  late  ?  Some  of  them  are  going. 
And  you  must  not  neglect  any  one  else  for  me.  Miss  Annie 
and  I,"  she  said,  smiling  faintly,  "  are  useful  and  not  ornamental 
persons  this  afternoon,  you  know." 

But  Baretta  came  back  afterwards  as  she  and  Mrs.  Chilton 
were  standing  together,  waiting  to  bring  up  the  rear  of  the  line 
of  departing  guests.  "  I  am  going  to  take  Mrs.  Chilton  home 
with  me,"  said  Mildred,  as  if  she  must  explain  why  she  lingered. 
"  Don't  trouble  yourself  to  go  down  with  us.  Oh,  I  assure  you 
we  have  enjoyed  coming  so  much." 

Of  course  he  insisted  that  he  would  go  down.  And  he  called 
to  Herr  Emil  to  find  out  if  Miss  Lawrence's  carriage  were  at  the 
door.  He  felt  that  he  had  behaved  very  badly,  and  he  endeav- 
oured to  atone  for  it.  "  You  are  very  kind,  Miss  Lawrence,"  he 
said,  "  but  you  always  were  that." 

"  I  don't  see  how,"  answered  Mildred.  It  was  not  an  espe- 
cially significant  remark,  but  her  eyes  met  his  with  a  friendly 
look — a  look  that  set  his  heart  to  beating  loudly,  that  sent  the 
hot  blood  to  his  face. 

"  Then,"  he  said,  in  so  low  a  tone  that  Mrs.  Chilton  could  not 
hear,  "  you  will  forgive  me  ?" 

"  Forgive  you  ?  I  have  nothing  to  forgive."  But  when  he 
put  out  his  hand  impulsively  she  extended  hers  to  meet  it,  and 
he  remembered  how  once  she  had  not  shaken  hands  with  him 
at  all. 

It  was  while  she  and  Mrs.  Chilton  were  coming  down  the 
steps,  and  Herr  Emil  was  holding  open  the  door  of  the  carriage, 
as  he  had  done  earlier  in  the  afternoon  for  Mrs.  Gregorson,  that 
a  young  woman  coming  along  the  pavement  suddenly  stopped  to 
look  at  them.  Neither  of  the  ladies  saw  her,  but  Baretta,  who 
was  following  them,  did;  and  he  started  back  with  a  sudden 
look  of  terror  and  a  muttered  execration. 

"  If  you  blease,"  said  Herr  Emil,  with  a  profound  bow,  sud- 
denly addressing  Miss  Lawrence,  and  stepping  forward  so  quick- 
ly that  if  she  had  turned  she  would  have  noticed  nothing  unu- 
sual. "  So  !"  he  cried,  closing  the  carriage  door  sharply  as  soon 
as  she  and  Mrs.  Chilton  were  inside,  and  pressing  very  close  to 
the  window.  "  Retty,  coachman." 

245 


But  Baretta,  with  eyes  as  of  one  gazing  at  a  spectre,  was  still 
standing  at  the  foot  of  the  steps.  It  was  the  young  woman 
who  held  his  attention,  not  the  departing  carriage.  "  Maud  !" 
he  cried  at  last,  and  anger  and  fear  were  strangely  mingled  in 
his  tone — "  Maud  !  what  brings  you  here  ?" 

"246 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
"YOU  HAVE   MADE  ME   WHAT  I  AM" 

"  I  GUESS  I've  as  good  a  right  as  anybody  to  walk  along  the 
street,"  said  Maud,  sullenly,  in  answer  to  this  question.  She 
had  turned  very  pale  when  she  saw  him  first.  But  womanlike, 
she  had  looked  away  at  once  to  scan  the  faces  of  the  two  who 
were  coming  down  the  steps  with  him ;  and  when  she  had  dis- 
covered that  one  was  young  and  pretty  and  "  real  stylish  " — 
perhaps  she  noted  this  last  fact  first — it  was  upon  this  one  that 
she  had  bent  a  curious  and  intent  gaze,  until  the  gray-bearded 
man  who  was  holding  open  the  carriage  door  had  stepped  be- 
tween. Then  when  she  heard  the  rumble  of  departing  wheels 
she  turned  to  Baretta  again.  "  I  didn't  come  to  see  you,  any- 
way," she  said,  finding  that  he  made  no  reply  to  her  first  retort. 

"  Bitte,  Fraulein"  said  the  man  whom  she  did  not  know,  lay- 
ing a  hand  upon  her  arm  as  she  attempted  to  walk  by.  "  Vill 
you  not  come  in  ?  to  talk  it  ofer — nicht  so  ?" 

"  Who  are  you,  anyway  ?"  cried  Maud,  shaking  herself  free, 
"  and  what  have  you  got  to  talk  to  me  about  ?" 

"  You  know  der  Herr  Baron,  eh  ?  He  vas  your  frent  ?  But 
it  is  kolt  in  der  shtreet,"  added  Herr  Emil,  smiling  blandly. 

"  Come,  don't  let's  have  any  nonsense,"  interrupted  Baretta. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Maud  —  I  didn't  expect  to  see  you  —  I 
thought  perhaps — " 

"  You  thought  perhaps  you  were  rid  of  me  for  good  and  all," 
cried  Maud,  bitterly.  "  Well,  you  will  be  soon." 

The  crafty  Herr  Emil  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance.  Ah, 
it  was  sad,  very  sad,  that  a  young  man  should  betray  and  aban- 
don a  girl  like  that — so  handsome  a  girl,  too  !  But  Baron  Smol- 

247 


zow  mustn't  get  into  a  wretched  wrangle  with  her  on  the  street. 
"  Mein  schones  Frdulein"  said  Herr  Emil,  taking  her  by  the  arm 
once  more,  "  es  ist  sehr  kolt  —  ach,  Grott !  you  will  haf  your 
death." 

And  like  one  in  a  dream  Maud  yielded  to  him  and  allowed 
herself  to  be  led  inside.  It  was  true,  as  she  had  told  Baretta, 
that  mere  chance  was  responsible  for  this  meeting.  She  had 
made  no  effort  to  seek  him  out,  even  when  matters  were  at  the 
worst  with  her.  She  had  accepted  their  parting  as  something 
inevitable ;  she  was  trying  to  forget  him,  trying  to  persuade 
herself  that  indifference  if  not  oblivion  was  possible.  And  now 
she  had  found  out  her  mistake.  All  the  dreary  weeks  and 
months  between  had  been  swept  away  by  a  huge  tide  of  emo- 
tion. She  had  answered  him  defiantly,  although  she  could  have 
cried  half  in  joy,  half  in  anguish,  at  seeing  him  once  more.  But 
it  was  true  that  she  had  not  sought  him  out — that  she  was  even 
now  wishing  their  first  parting  had  been  their  last. 

"Ach,  das  arme  Madchen!"  cried  Herr  Emil,  when  they  were 
in  the  Baron's  rooms  and  he  had  closed  the  door.  "  It  ees 
shameful,"  he  said.  "Dese  young  men  haf  badt  hearts." 

"  You  shut  up  !"  said  Baretta,  savagely.  "  How  dare  you 
talk  that  way  ?  I  never  injured  this  young  woman,  if  that  is 
what  you  mean.  We  were  engaged — in  a  kind  of  fashion,"  he 
went  on,  hesitating  over  this  declaration  and  looking  at  Maud, 
who  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground  and  said  nothing. 
"  Why  don't  you  tell  him  the  truth  ?"  he  cried  at  last,  "  that 
you  broke  it  off  yourself  ?" 

"  Yes — I  broke  it  off  myself ;  I  guess  that's  right."  Maud 
laughed  bitterly.  "  What  do  you  want  of  me  ?"  she  asked, 
turning  to  Herr  Emil. 

"  Moi  /"  he  cried.  "  I  vant  notings.  I  haf  been  told  to 
shut  up — told  by  him  to  shut  up.  Gott  im  Himmel !  vare  vould 
he  be  now  midout  me  ?  Novare — no  baron  at  all.  And  I  haf 
been  told  to  shut  up." 

"  Look  here !"  broke  in  Baretta,  excitedly,  "  there's  no  use  in 
having  a  row.  I  didn't  mean  to  insult  you.  But  when  you  be- 
gan to  talk  as  if  I  had  been  to  blame — " 

"  No,  he  ain't  to  blame,"  said  Maud.  "  You  couldn't  expect 

248 


a  great  man  like  him  to  go  about  with  the  likes  of  me.  Who 
are  you,  anyway  ?"  she  asked,  suspiciously. 

"  Oh,  it  ees  no  mataire  ;  I  am  of  no  account  whatefer.  But  I 
tell  you  one  tings,"  Herr  Emil  went  on,  addressing  the  Baron, 
"  I  safed  you  from  der  oder  seeing  notings.  fa  ne  fait  rien, 
you  say.  You  are  not  grateful — das  weiss  ich  wohl.  Die  leddies 
saw  notings." 

It  was  quite  true  what  his  father  said  ;  Baretta  remembered 
now  how  adroitly  he  had  hurried  Miss  Lawrence  and  Mrs.  Chil- 
ton  into  the  carriage,  how  he  had  prevented  Maud  from  making 
any  disturbance  before  them  even  if  she  had  wished  to  do  so. 
lie  himself  would  not  have  thought  of  that.  Indeed,  the  un- 
expected meeting  had  quite  deprived  him  of  his  presence  of 
mind. 

"  Oh,  well,  I  thank  you — I  know  how  much  I  owe  you,"  said 
Baretta.  "  I  guess  you  won't  let  me  forget  it  in  a  hurry.  But 
I  should  like  to  have  a  few  words  with  this  young  lady  alone,  if 
it's  all  the  same  to  you." 

Herr  Emil  held  up  both  hands  and  shook  his  head  despond- 
ently. "Ach,  der  Jugend  !"  he  exclaimed. 

"  Well,  I'm  going !"  exclaimed  Maud.  "  I  don't  see  why  I 
should  stay,  or  what  you  can  have  to  say  to  me,  Frank.  I've  got 
to  be  back  at  the  store  before  six.  They  don't  often  let  me  out 
like  this — they  sent  me  up  this  way  with  some  laces  to  match 
for  one  of  their  swell  customers.  I  guess  her  house  would  just 
about  suit  you,  Frank.  You'll  excuse  a  poor  girl's  calling  you 
that,  won't  you  ?  I  can't  remember  your  new  name." 

"  Why  are  you  still  so  angry  with  me,  Maud  I  You  would 
never  give  me  a  chance  to  explain — you  went  away  so  quickly — " 

"  And  I  wasn't  worth  bothering  about  after  that,  was  I  ?  Oh 
no  !"  she  added,  hastily.  "  I  ain't  mad  with  you.  How  could 
I  expect  anything  else  ?  I  didn't  want  you  to  come.  *I  didn't 
want  to  see  you  at  all."  Her  colour  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  Ba- 
retta, looking  at  her,  thought  that  she  was  handsomer  than  ever. 
"  And  I  ain't  going  to  stay  here  any  longer." 

But  Baretta  intercepted  her  as  she  hurried  towards  the  door. 
"  You  must  stay  a  minute — you  must  listen  to  me,"  he  cried. 
"  Why  can't  you  leave  us  to  ourselves  ?"  he  added,  irritably,  glan- 

249 


cing  at  his  father,  who  had  been  a  silent  spectator  of  this  scene, 
and  who  now,  with  an  expressive  shrug,  turned  and  walked  slowly 
into  the  next  room.  "  Maud,  please  be  reasonable — please  give 
me  a  chance  to  explain." 

His  hand  was  upon  her  arm,  but  she  threw  it  off  angrily. 
"  How  dare  you  touch  me  ?  How  dare  you  try  to  keep  me  ?" 
she  cried,  her  voice  growing  harsh  and  shrill.  "  Haven't  you 
hurt  me  enough  already  ?  O  God  !"  cried  poor  Maud,  suddenly 
bursting  into  tears,  "how  can  I  bear  it?  how  can  I  bear  it?" 

"  Maud  !  dearest  Maud  !"  Baretta,  too,  was  completely  un- 
hinged by  this  tempest  of  passion.  The  old  love,  that  he  had 
thought  dead  and  buried,  seemed  suddenly  to  awake  again ;  for 
the  moment  his  whole  nature  was  swayed  by  an  impulse  to  go 
back  to  her,  to  give  up  everything  for  her  sake.  How  true  it 
was  that  no  one  would  ever  love  him  as  she  did.  And  she  was 
so  very  pretty  even  in  her  wrath — even  with  the  hot  tears  cours- 
ing down  her  face.  Miss  Lawrence,  if  she  were  also  shabbily 
clad,  would  look  pale  and  inconspicuous  beside  Maud — Miss 
Lawrence,  who,  though  she  had  taken  his  hand  at  parting,  did 
not  love  him.  "  Oh,  you  are  unjust  to  me,"  he  went  on  ;  "I 
have  never  forgotten  you,  though  I  have  tried  to.  Maud,  dear- 
est Maud  !  No,  don't  turn  from  me ;  I  have  been  a  fool,  but  I 
won't  give  you  up  now."  He  seized  her  arm  again  and  drew 
her,  still  struggling,  closer  to  him.  '"  Maud  !  we  won't  be  sep- 
arated again,  not  if  you  yet  care  for  me." 

"  Care  for  you  !"  cried  Maud.  "  Oh,  Frank,  Frank  !"  She 
threw  herself  passionately  upon  his  breast,  trembling  like  a  leaf ; 
as  their  lips  met  her  eyes  closed,  and  she  sank  heavily  backwards 
in  a  dead  faint. 

"  You  should  leaf  everytings  to  me,"  said  Herr  Emil,  while  he 
and  Baretta  bent  over  the  unconscious  girl,  one  bathing  her  fore- 
head with  cold  water,  the  other  holding  a  bottle  of  camphor  to 
her  lips.  "  Vat  for  you  kees  her  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  have  been  spying,  have  you  ?"  cried  Baretta,  furi- 
ously. 

"  Spy  !  I  haf  to  spy.  You  could  not  be  the  Herr  Baron  one 
single  day  ven  I  not  look  after  you.  Haf  you  no  sense  ?  Ilaf 
you  forget  the  schones  Frdulein  you  are  to  marry  ?  Oh,  ho  !  I 

250 


know  sometings !  it  ees  fool  zhoke  to  look  at  me  so.  You  sail 
marry  her — I  vill  see  to  it — moi  /" 

"  Well,  it's  no  time  to  talk  of  that  now,"  said  Baretta,  sullenly. 
"  You  had  better  go ;  she  won't  care  to  see  you  here  when  she 
comes  to  herself." 

"  Oh,  I  leaf  her  to  you.  But  no  more  keesing — eh,  bien  ?" 
llerr  Emil  laughed  knowingly.  "  I  haf  to  go  out — you  shall  haf 
das  Mddchen  to  take  home.  Ho  !  ho  !  but  no  more  keesing  !" 
Herr  Emil's  face  was  distorted  by  a  smile  that  was  perfectly  ma- 
lignant in  its  suggestion  of  evil.  "  If  it  ees  money  she  vants,  I 
vill  feex  it — ach,jaf  I  vill  feex  it." 

Baretta  drew  a  sigh  of  relief  when  the  older  man  closed  the 
door  behind  him.  It  was  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  keep  from 
bursting  forth  into  an  angry  retort ;  the  suggestion  had  been  so 
inexpressibly  vile  and  cowardly.  He  experienced  an  absolute 
sense  of  loathing  for  his  father.  Poor  Maud !  that  any  one  should 
think  for  a  moment  he  was  coward  enough  to  take  advantage  of 
her  helplessness.  This  young  man  had  his  faults ;  but  whatever 
they  were,  he  would  have  been  incapable  of  that.  To  do  him 
justice  he  had  never  thought  of  anything  but  marrying  the  girl 
when  he  told  her  that  they  should  not  be  separated  again.  He 
had  not  realized  how  much  the  fulfilment  of  this  renewal  of  his 
vows  to  Maud  would  cost  him  until  his  father  had  reminded  him: 
Oh  yes,  he  said  to  himself  bitterly,  he  had  forgotten  that  he  wanted 
to  marry  Miss  Lawrence.  But  what  was  the  use  of  remembering 
now  ?  Why  had  Maud  come  into  his  life  again  to  turn  its  cur- 
rent all  awry  ?  Her  dark  eyes,  once  more  opening  as  the  colour 
surged  back  to  her  face,  were  fixed  upon  him  with  a  vaguely  pit- 
eous look,  but  half  unconsciously  he  avoided  meeting  them. 

"  You  will  not  leave  me,  will  you,  Frank  ?"  she  murmured, 
presently. 

"  Leave  you,  Maud  ?     No,  no  !" 

"  I  suppose  I'm  a  big  fool.  But  I  can't  help  it."  As  she  spoke 
a  tear  slowly  trickled  down  her  cheek. 

"  Look  here,  dear,  you  mustn't  talk  just  yet." 

"  Mustn't  I?"  she  asked,  smiling  faintly.  "  How  good  you  are 
to  me !" 

"  Good !  It's  you  that's  good,  Maud,  to  come  back  to  me. ' 

251 


And  perhaps  after  all,  he  thought,  this  solution  of  the  problem 
of  life  was  best.  What  advantage  had  his  ambitions  been  to 
him  ?  These  people  who  courted  and  flattered  him  did  not  care 
for  him  in  the  least.  If  they  knew  the  truth  they  would  only 
despise  and  deride  him.  Maud  was  the  one  human  being  on 
earth  whom  nothing  could  estrange.  If  he  could  only  forget 
Miss  Lawrence,  who  would  so  easily  forget  him,  he  might  find 
with  Maud  at  least  a  measure  of  happiness.  He  could  not  ques- 
tion the  sincerity  of  her  devotion ;  it  flattered  him  now  to  think 
that  she  loved  him  no  less  than  ever,  although  she  had  every 
reason  to  think  that  he  no  longer  loved  her.  And  why  should 
he  not  marry  her  ?  His  hopes  of  winning  that  other  were  very 
shadowy  and  unsubstantial.  Her  kindness  might  have  meant 
nothing.  But  Maud  loved  him,  and  she  would  not  care  whether 
he  was  Baron  Smolzow  or  only  Francis  Baretta.  If  the  time 
ever  came  when  he  could  go  across  the  ocean  to  claim  those 
estates  he  might  as  well  take  her  as  any  one  else.  Over  there 
it  would  make  no  difference.  The  estates  !  he  was  sick  of  all 
this  pretence.  He  would  rid  himself  of  his  father's  presence 
and  go  back  to  obscurity  and  be  happy  in  his  own  way. 

"  I  guess  I'm  feeling  better  now,"  said  Maud,  presently.  She 
tried  to  rise  from  the  sofa  where  she  was  lying,  but  he  pressed 
her  back  with  gentle  force. 

"  Wait  a  little  longer,"  he  said.  "  You  don't  look  quite 
yourself  yet." 

"  Don't  I,  Frank  ?  But  I  am  all  right — I  really  am.  And, 
Frank,  I  didn't  mean  what  I  said.  I  know  it's  foolish  to  think 
that  I  can  ever  be  anything  to  you  again.  Was  that  her  ?"  she 
added,  after  a  moment  of  silence,  looking  up  at  him  piteously. 

"  Her !"  repeated  Baretta,  vexed  by  the  question.  "  What  do 
you  mean  by  her  ?  The  ladies  you  saw  were  Mrs.  Chilton  and — 
and  Miss  Lawrence.  They  have  been  here  this  afternoon — with 
other  friends  of  mine.'" 

"  Oh !"  said  Maud.  "  Well,  I  don't  see  that  she's  so  very 
pretty,"  she  added. 

"  I  wasn't  aware  that  I  ever  told  you  she  was  pretty.  But  I 
don't  know  why  you  talk  in  that  way.  Miss  Lawrence  is  noth- 
ing to  me — I've  told  you  so  any  number  of  times." 

252 


"You've  told  me  a  good  many  things.  Don't  look  cross, 
Frank,  but  I  can't  help  feeling  jealous." 

"Oh,  you  annoy  me,  you  aggravate  me  !"  he  cried,  impatiently, 
rising  and  walking  away.  "  See  here,"  he  added,  "  you  must  for- 
get all  that ;  you  mustn't  make  yourself  miserable  over  an  imag- 
inary rival.  I  tell  you  that  she  is  nothing  to  me — that  I  love 
you — that  I'll  marry  you  ;  and  why  can't  you  be  content  ?" 

"Don't  get  mad  about  it,  Frank."  She  sighed  faintly  ;  then 
she  sat  up,  and  put  one  hand  to  her  head.  "  Oh,  what  a  fright 
I  must  be !  My  hat  is  all  crushed  in,  and  my  hair  must  be  a 
sight.  Haven't  you  got  a  glass  somewhere  ?" 

"  You  women  are  always  thinking  of  your  looks." 

"  Well,  I  ain't  got  much  looks  to  think  of.  Oh,  I'm  a  good 
deal  better  than  I  was,"  said  Maud,  rising  to  her  feet.  "  What 
a  fool  I  was  to  faint !  I  guess  it  was  because  I  was  tired.  You 
don't  get  much  chance  to  rest  in  the  store — they  won't  let  you 
sit  down." 

"  In  the  store  1    What  store  ?" 

"  You  didn't  know  I  was  at  Brown's,  did  you  ?  Well,  I  had 
to  do  something,  and  when  I  didn't  have  any  home  to  go  to — " 

"  Have  you  left  your  home  ?"  asked  Baretta,  abruptly.  "  What 
did  you  do  that  for  ?" 

"  Well,  I  thought  after  my  father  called  me  names  and  knocked 
me  down  it  was  time  to  go." 

"Knocked  you  down,  the  brute!"  cried  Baretta.  "  Oh,  I've 
got  an  account  to  settle  with  him  !" 

"  No,  Frank,"  said  Maud,  coming  near,  and  laying  an  appeal- 
ing hand  upon  his  arm.  "  Promise  me  you  won't  ever  have 
anything  more  to  say  to  him.  It  ain't  worth  while — it  would 
only  get  you  into  trouble." 

"  I  won't  promise  anything.  It  was  he  who  set  them  all  on 
me — he  and  that  scoundrel  Luck." 

"  But  I  want  you  to  promise,"  she  persisted.  "  You  might 
do  that  much  to  please  me." 

"  Oh,  very  well,  then ;  I  promise."  After  all,  he  thought, 
would  it  not  be  rather  beneath  the  dignity  of  Baron  Smolzow 
to  pursue  a  quarrel  with  so  low  a  wretch  as  Peter  Dolan  ?  A 
low  wretch — that  indeed  he  was  ;  and  Baron  Smolzow  was  to 

253 


marry  his  daughter.  Maud  would  never  understand  how  great 
the  sacrifice  was.  And  yet  once  she  had  said  good-bye  to  him 
and  had  gone  away  without  a  murmur.  Perhaps  he  was  acting 
like  a  fool,  after  all — to  throw  away  all  his  chances  because  a 
girl  had  cried  and  had  fainted  in  his  arms. 

"Do  I  look  all  right,  Frank?"  asked  Maud,  turning  from 
the  mirror  and  facing  him. 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes — I  suppose  so,"  he  answered.  "  Where  do  you 
live  now  ?" 

"  In  Roxbury.  But  you  needn't  bother  to  come  with  me. 
I've  got  to  go  back  to  the  store  first.  Mercy  !"  she  cried,  look- 
ing at  the  clock,  "  it's  after  six  now,  and  it  '11  be  closed.  Won't 
I  get  it  in  the  morning  !" 

"Well,  you  can  tell  them  the  truth  —  that  yon  were  sick. 
Look  here,  Maud,  I  don't  like  the  idea  of  your  working  in  such 
a  place  as  that.  It's  wearing  you  out.  Besides,  it  isn't  a  fit 
place  for  any  girl.  I  know  how  they  treat  them — the  damned 
canting  humbugs !  who  brag  about  their  kindness  to  the  poor." 

"That's  all  very  fine,  but  I  don't  see  how  I  can  live  on  air. 
You  needn't  come  with  me,  Frank,  unless  you  want  to.  I  guess 
I  can  find  my  way." 

"  Of  course  I'm  coming."  He  disappeared  into  the  inner 
room,  and  returned  in  a  moment  with  his  hat  and  coat.  "  I 
don't  know  how  we'll  manage  it,"  he  said,  "  but  we'll  have  to 
manage  it  some  way." 

"Manage  what?  Oh,  you  needn't  worry  about  me;  I  can 
take  care  of  myself,"  said  Maud,  bravely.  Did  he  understand, 
she  wondered,  how  hard  her  task  had  been?  how  she  had 
counted  every  penny,  and  denied  herself  every  pleasure,  to  live 
honestly  on  four  dollars  a  week?  And  now  there  was  to  be  an 
end  of  that.  She  felt  a  guilty  pleasure  in  the  thought.  He 
was  throwing  away  everything  for  her ;  but  although  she  had 
been  capable  of  giving  him  up  once,  the  second  temptation  was 
too  strong.  How  she  had  misjudged  him !  If  she  had  had  a 
little  patience,  they  need  not  have  been  separated  at  all.  "  I 
ain't  sure  that  you  mean  what  you  say,  Frank,"  she  said,  smiling 
at  him  that  he  might  know  she  was  only  joking. 

"  How  pretty  you  look  !"  was  Baretta's  rather  irrelevant  reply. 

254 


"  Maud,  I  do  love  you,  even  if — "  He  hesitated  a  moment ;  then 
he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  with  fervour.  Possibly 
he  felt  the  need  of  convincing  himself  as  well  as  her. 

He  was  very  far  from  convinced,  at  all  events,  as  he  rode 
back  from  Roxbury  in  the  street-car  alone.  It  was  a  great  sac- 
rifice that  he  was  making,  and  he  was  not  at  all  sure  that  it  was 
inevitable.  What  a  fool  a  man  will  sometimes  make  of  himself 
for  a  pretty  face  !  Maud  was  undoubtedly  pretty  now.  The 
confinement  for  so  many  weary  hours  in  the  big  store  might 
have  robbed  her  of  her  old  look  of  abounding  health,  but  it  had 
somehow  added  a  touch  of  refinement  —  had  made  her  look 
more  like  a  lady.  That  neat  black  gown,  too,  was  infinitely 
more  becoming  than  the  gaudier  costumes  in  which  she  had 
been  wont  to  array  herself.  Nevertheless,  no  one  could  deny 
that  it  was  a  great  sacrifice  ;  and  it  irritated  him  that  the  oppor- 
tunity for  making  it  had  arisen.  When  she  had  cried  in  that 
way,  what  was  a  man  to  do  ?  Of  course  he  had  missed  her ; 
even  to  a  man  who  is  getting  on  in  the  world  the  thought  that 
he  has  no  one  to  love  must  bring  a  pang ;  one's  self  is  an  un- 
substantial idol.  And  yet  if  she  had  not  cried  and  thrown  her- 
self upon  his  breast  and  kissed  him  he  might  have  borne  an- 
other parting  from  her.  He  could  explain  things  better,  could 
set  them  in  their  proper  light,  when  she  listened  quietly,  as  she 
had  done  on  that  afternoon  when  he  told  her  he  was  Baron 
Smolzow.  After  all,  it  was  incongruous — it  was  absurd — that 
they  should  marry.  His  father's  insidious  suggestion  occurred 
to  him,  but  he  thrust  it  aside  impatiently.  He  would  not  have 
her  ruin  on  his  conscience ;  he  had  enough  to  trouble  him  al- 
ready. Although  this  young  man  had  certainly  not  been  over- 
scrupulous in  most  things  during  his  career,  he  had  his  stand- 
ard of  honour.  There  were  some  sins  which  he  could  not 
commit. 

He  dined  at  a  French  table  d'hote,  so  that  it  was  nearly  nine 
o'clock  before  he  got  back  to  his  rooms,  where  he  found  his  fa- 
ther reading  the  evening  paper.  He  glared  angrily  at  the  com- 
placent figure  lolling  in  an  easy-chair.  Herr  Emil  had  a  pipe 
in  his  mouth,  and  there  was  a  bottle  of  whiskey  and  a  soda- 
siphon  on  a  convenient  table. 

255 


"1  wish  you  wouldn't  drink  so  much,"  was  his  surly  greeting. 

"  Oh,  ho !"  cried  Herr  Einil,  looking  up.  "  So  we  haf  been 
rait  our  scharmer,  eh  ?  My  troat  is  bad  to-night — der  viskey  is 
what  I  needs." 

"  I  wish  I'd  never  seen  your  face  !"  Baretta  burst  forth.  "  I 
wish  you'd  go  away  and  never  come  back  to  trouble  me  again !" 

"You  are  a  tarn  ungrateful  son,"  replied  Herr  Emil,  coolly. 

"  What  good  has  it  all  been  ?  What  am  I  now  but  an  im- 
postor— a  fellow  that  not  one  of  them  would  speak  to  if  they 
knew  the  truth?  And  they  will  find  it  out — that  fellow  Allen 
saw  you  this  afternoon,  and  trust  him  for  talking." 

"  I  tink  you  are  upset,  Fran§ois,  by  our  leetle  girl — vat  you 
call  her — Maudt?  She  is  a  bretty  girl,  but  not  so  bretty  as 
Miss  Lawrence.  You  haf  been  gone  mit  her  a  long  time." 

"  Well,  that's  none  of  your  business."  Baretta  threw  off  his 
coat  and  hat,  and  sank  wearily  into  a  chair.  He  felt  baffled 
and  helpless.  Rage  as  he  might  against  his  father,  he  could  not 
stir  him  a  jot. 

Herr  Emil  helped  himself  to  another  glass  of  whiskey-and- 
soda,  although  a  certain  thickness  in  his  speech  indicated  that 
he  had  already  taken  quite  enough.  "  You  are  tarn  ungrateful," 
.he  repeated.  "  I  do  every  tings  for  you,  and  you  treat  me  like  a 
tog.  But  I  forgeef  you,"  said  Herr  Emil,  sniffling  with  his  emo- 
tion. "  I  do  everytings  for  you  still.  I  haf  made  you  vat  you 
are." 

His  son  looked  at  him  in  silence  for  a  moment.  He  was 
wondering  if  there  was  really  any  way  of  escape,  after  all,  from 
the  net  in  which  he  was  entangled.  "  Yes,"  he  said  at  last,  sul- 
lenly, "  you  have  made  me  what  I  am." 

256 


„  » 


CHAPTER  XXV 
AN    EMISSARY 

WAS  she,  then,  to  be  happy  in  spite  of  everything?  This 
was  the  question  which  Maud  asked  herself  that  evening  as  she 
sat  alone  in  her  dingy  and  desolate  little  room.  It  was  not  a 
happy  life  that  she  had  been  leading  of  late.  There  was»no 
pleasure  for  her,  none  of  the  joys  which  belong  to  youth ;  only 
a  dreary  round  of  daily  work,  a  dull  recurrence  of  a  never- 
ending  task.  Yet  it  was  a  life  from  which  she  had  seen  no 
hope  of  escape,  no  promise  of  deliverance.  Marriage  was  some- 
thing that  seemed  to  her  to  be  no  longer  even  a  possibility.  In 
giving  up  Baretta  she  had  given  up  her  whole  future.  What- 
ever happened  she  could  never  forget  that  she  had  loved  him. 
It  was  useless  for  her  to  try  to  forget.  There  are  women  who 
can  be  faithful  to  an  ideal  long  after  it  h.as  crumbled  away. 
Maud's  environment  was  not  exactly  calculated  to  develop  deli- 
cacy of  feeling,  but  nevertheless  this  quality  of  fidelity  was  hers. 
Sometimes,  it  is  true,  she  reflected  that  Baretta  had  treated  her 
very  badly ;  but  he  never  was  discharged  from  the  tribunal  of 
her  memory  without  a  verdict  of  forgiveness.  And  now — and 
now !  He  had  told  her  that  nothing  should  separate  them 
again.  How  could  she  maintain  even  a  semblance  of  anger 
when  he  said  that?  Was  he  not  giving  up  everything  for  her 
sake  ?  Perhaps  she  ought  to  refuse  to  accept  the  sacrifice  ;  per- 
haps she  ought  to  send  him  back  to  Miss  Lawrence.  Would  he 
ever  have  b'een  hers  again  except  for  the  strange  chance  of  the 
afternoon  ?  It  was  Miss  Lawrence  of  whom  he  was  thinking, 
to  whom  he  was  devoting  liimsejf,  when  she  came  along  the 
pavement.  Maud  knew  who  the  younger  of  the  two  ladies  was 


before  she  asked  him.  Miss  Lawrence  ought  to  look  like  that — 
dainty,  trim,  with  that  air  of  high  breeding  which  is  none  the 
less  obvious  for  being  indefinable,  which  even  a  girl  brought  up 
in  Arragon  Street  could  not  fail  to  recognize.  And  to  give  up 
a  real  lady  just  for  her !  That  was  the  very  climax  of  heroism 
in  Maud's  mind.  She  could  not  bear  to  tell  him  that  he  must 
not  make  the  sacrifice.  Once  she  had  been  generous  with  him ; 
but  she  had  suffered  too  much  since  to  be  generous  now.  "  Oh, 
I  will  be  so  good  to  you,  Frank !"  said  Maud,  talking  to  herself, 
as  people  who  live  much  alone  are  wont  to  do.  "  I  guess  you'll 
be  sorry  some  day,  but  I  can't  help  it  if  you  are." 

Indeed,  just  at  this  time  Maud  would  have  grasped  at  almost 
any  way  of  escape  from  the  life  she  was  leading.  She  had  be- 
gun to  think  that  it  was  even  worse  than  being  in  Arragon  Street. 
To  be  shut  up  night  after  night  in  a  mean  and  stuffy  box  of  a 
place,  with  not  a  soul  to  speak  to !  The  only  resource  she  had 
was  reading,  and  one  could  not  forever  fall  back  on  that.  Even 
the  marriage  of  Gladys  Vivian  to  the  son  of  the  Earl  of  Mount 
Avon  could  not  console  Maud  Vivian  for  lodging  with  Mrs.  Jack- 
son. She  had  kept  the  name  she  had  so  hastily  assumed  partly 
because  she  wished  to  avoid  a  stringent  catechism  from  the  worthy 
landlady,  whom  she  felt  always  kept  a  suspicious  eye  upon  her 
actions.  Mrs.  Jackson  was  poor,  and  she  wore  very  dirty  dresses ; 
but  she  was  rigidly  virtuous.  On  the  rare  occasions  when  Maud 
had  extended  interviews  with  her  she  invariably  emphasized  her 
determination  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  a  girl  who  was  not 
"decent."  Mrs.  Jackson  had  young  children,  and  her  deter- 
mination was  no  doubt  a  worthy  one.  Perhaps  it  was  also  on 
Mr.  Jackson's  account  that  she  Insisted  so  strenuously  upon  this 
point.  Mr.  Jackson  looked  much  yoiroger  than  his  wife,  and 
his  ideas  of  virtue  were  considerably  more  vague.  He  was  a  very 
facetious  person,  which  was  trying  to  his  wife,  who  had  a  slender 
sense  of  humour.  One  reason  why  Maud  kept  so  much  by  her- 
self was  Mr.  Jackson's  propensity  to  make  ey£S.  at  her — a  pro- 
pensity which  Mrs.  Jackson  detected  and  resented.  He  used  to 
annoy  her  by  furtively  squeezing  her  hand  or  slipping  his  arm 
about  her  waist  when  he  met  her  alone  in  the  dark  and  narrow 
entry.  Once  he  went  so  far  as  to  try.,  to  kiss  her,  and  when  she 

258 


indignantly  told  him  that  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself,  he 
burst  into  a  laugh  and  accused  her  of  being  afraid  of  the  old 
woman.  It  was  not  at  all  pleasant  to  be  treated  like  this,  and 
so  Maud  stayed  alone  more  and  more  in  her  cheerless  room  at 
the  top  of  the  house.  She  often  wished  that  she  could  escape 
as  easily  from  other  unwelcome  attentions.  But  in  tftie  store  she 
was  a  prisoner  behind  the  long  counter,  and  when  the  manager 
sat  down  on  one  of  the  stools  in  front  and  leered  at  her  with  a 
satyr-like  grin  there  was  no  way  of  escape.  The  other  girls  used 
to  laugh  and  tell  her  that  she  had  a  great  "  mash  "  on  Foxy,  such 
being  the  epithet  which  they  applied  to  Mr.  Thomas*  B.  Fox. 
But  she  retorted  that  she  didn't  want  to  have  a  mash  on  any- 
body. The  girls  would  not  believe  that ;  all  of  them  had*  some 
mash  of  their  own ;  and  it  appeared  that  Foxy  had  "  made  up 
to  "  them  all  in  turn. 

"  He  ain't  so  bad  as  young  Mr.  Brown,  though,"  said  a  short, 
curly-haired,  impertinent-looking  girl  named  Dolly.  "  Him  you 
saw  me  talking  to  yesterday — one  of  the  firm,"  she  added. 

"  Well,  I  guess  Dolly  knows  how  bad  he  is  !"  exclaimed  Clara, 
who  was  Dolly's  chum.  It  was  just  after  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  when  customers  were  few,  and  the  young  women  were 
chattering  in  a  group  at  one  end  of  the  counter. 

"  You  mean  thing !"  cried  Dolly.  But  she  did  not  look  very 
greatly  displeased. 

"  Perhaps  he  knows  something  about  them  diamonds  we  saw 
her  wearing  the  other  evening  at  the  theatre,"  said  a  third  girl, 
who  had  a  coarse  face  and  a  disagreeable  laugh. 

"  Well,  that  ain't  any  of  your  business,"  retorted  Dolly. 

"  I  guess  the  diamonds  was  Rhine-stones,"  observed  Clara. 

"Oh,  I  know  what's' the  trouble  with  you;  you're  jealous," 
said  Dolly,  with  a  laugh.  "  Don't  you  ever  mind  what  she  says 
to  you,"  she  added,  turning  to  Maud.  "  But  you're  one  of  the 
quiet  .kind  and  don't  let  on,  anyway." 

"  Let  on  !"  repeated  Maud,  sharply.  "  What  is  there  to  let  on 
about?" 

"  You're  too  innocent  by  half  !"  sneered  Clara.  She  after- 
wards told  Dolly,  however,  that  she  thought  that  Vivian  girl 
was  really  pretty  straight.  —  "  I  guess  she  don't  know  yet  how 

259 


hard  it  is  to  keep  straight,"  Clara  said.  "  What's  the  good  ? 
I'm  going  to  have  my  fun  while  I  can,  you  bet." 

Dolly  laughed  once  more,  although  for  a  moment  there  was 
something  suspiciously  like  tears  in  her  eyes.  Perhaps  she  was 
thinking  of  the  time  when  she  had  no  diamonds  to  wear,  but 
when  her  heart  was  lighter  than  it  often  was  now. 

Maud  could  not  be  very  friendly  with  these  girls.  Conversa- 
tion like  this  filled  her  with  a  sense  of  loathing ;  she  felt  ashamed 
for  all  women  that  any  of  them  should  lead  vicious  lives.  Pos- 
sibly she  did  not  quite  realize  the  strength  of  the  temptation  to 
which  they  had  succumbed.  In  spite  of  her  pride  in  her  good 
looks,  her  hatred  of  the  sordid  conditions  with  which  she  had 
hitherto  been  environed,  her  desire  to  be  loved  and  her  capacity 
for  a  passionate  devotion,  she  had  a  strong  instinct  of  purity,  a 
disdain  of  contamination,  which  were  more  powerful  incentives 
to  virtue  than  any  conventional  "  goodness  "  could  have  been. 
She  might  fall  for  love  in  the  hour  of  her  weakness ;  she  would 
never  sell  herself  for  diamonds.  And  yet  she  knew  that  in  this 
painful  struggle  for  existence  youth  and  beauty  must  soon  wear 
away.  All  the  girls  were  not  like  Dolly  and  Clara.  Many  a 
drama  of  patient  heroism  had  been  played  in  that  huge,  noisy, 
crowded  human  hive.  One  could  read  the  final  act  in  the  pale, 
patient,  careworn  faces.  And  there  were  other  girls  who  had 
been  prosperous,  whose  cleverness  had  been  recognized  in  a  sub- 
stantial way,  who  could  say  that  their  good-fortune  had  been 
honestly  come  by.  But  at  best  it  was  a  hard  life,  and  Maud  was 
not  patient.  The  confinement,  the  din,  the  unkindness  of  floor- 
walkers, and  the  impertinence  of  customers — all  fretted  her. 
When  she  was  alone  in  that  dingy  room  at  Mrs.  Jackson's  she 
shed  many  a  tear.  And  she  had  nothing  to  console  her — no, 
nothing.  Even  the  man  she  loved  had  forgotten  her. 

But  now  what  a  change  was  this !  She  had  seen  him  by  a 
strange  chance,  and  although  she  had  tried  to  repulse  him,  he 
had  told  her  that  they  should  never  be  separated  again.  He 
loved  her  still — he  would  give  up  everything  for  her  sake.  How 
she  had  misjudged  him  !  She  tried  to  persuade  herself  that  she 
had  misjudged  him,  that  he  had  not  treated  her  badly  when  he 
had  told  her  how  greatly  his  circumstances  had  altered.  And 

260 


yet,  perhaps,  she  was  not  quite  convinced.  She  had  known  all 
along  that  he  did  not  love  her  as  she  loved  him.  He  might  yet 
be  sorry  that  he  had  come  back  to  her.  It  must  be  that  the 
other  girl  was  fond  of  him,  too ;  at  any  rate,  she  no  longer  looked 
down  on  him,  since  she  came  to  see  him  in  her  carriage  and 
with  her  coachman  and  all.  Maud  was  conscious  of  a  bitter 
sense  of  inferiority  as  she  recalled  how  the  two  ladies  had  come 
down  the  steps  with  that  strange  man  bowing  and  scraping  be- 
fore them.  Who  was  he  ?  Evidently  a  person  of  some  impor- 
tance, and  yet  Frank  had  never  spoken  of  him.  It  was  all  very 
puzzling.  She  could  hardly  believe  that  the  great  happiness  she 
had  thought  was  gone  forever  was  still  to  be  hers.  Such  things 
happened  in  stories  but  hot  in  real  life.  Why  should  Frank 
give  up  his  swells  just  for  her  sake  ?  She  did  not  doubt  that  he 
could  marry  Miss  Lawrence  now  if  he  wished.  She  didn't  un- 
derstand exactly  how  it  was,  but  he  had  become  a  swell  himself, 
and  could  marry  any  one  he  chose.  And  he  would  choose  her. 
How  could  she  help  being  grateful  to  him  for  that  ?  Surely,  he 
had  not  meant  to  be  hard  and  cruel  when  he  told  her  that  here- 
after he  must  associate  with  people  of  his  own  class.  At  all 
events,  she  could  no  longer  cherish  any  resentment  against  him. 
He  had  promised  to  take  her  away  from  the  surroundings  which 
she  so  hated.  And  whether  it  was  too  great  a  sacrifice  on  his 
part  or  not,  she  could  not  give  him  up  a  second  time.  She  had 
suffered  so  much  in  the  past  that  her  present  happiness  made 
her  selfish.  To  get  away  from  the  store,  from  the  customers 
who  spoke  sharply  to  her,  and  the  girls  who  made  fun  of  her — 
she  would  do  anything  for  that.  Yet  somehow  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  free  herself  from  the  apprehension  that  it  was  all  a  mis- 
take— that  he  would  come  by-and-by  to  tell  her  she  must  give 
him  up.  And  then,  oh,  then  !  what  would  she  do  ?  How  could 
she  bear  once  more  the  hopeless  life  she  had  been  living  after  a 
single  rapturous  glimpse  of  the  way  to  escape  ?  It  was  drearier 
out  here  in  a  shabby  tenement  in  Roxbury  than  it  had  been  even 
in  Arragon  Street.  But  she  would  never  go  back;  whatever 
happened,  she  would  not  do  that.  She  often  wondered  how 
they  were  getting  on  at  home,  and  if  they  missed  her.  A  few 
days  after  her  sudden  departure  she  had  sent  to  her  mother  a 

261 


postal-card  saying  that  she  was  well,  and  telling  her  not  to  wor- 
ry. But  she  had  given  no  address,  so  that  none  of  the  family 
could  seek  her  out.  She  now  resolved  that  when  she  was  mar- 
ried she  would  go  to  see  them  and  let  them  know  how  well  she 
was  getting  on.  Perhaps  they  would  think  that  she  had  gone 
to  the  bad,  which  was  the  usual  destination  of  girls  who  left  Ar- 
ragon  Street  suddenly.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  she  was 
doing  them  any  injury  by  keeping  them  in  suspense.  Her  moth- 
er would  "  take  on,"  to  be  sure ;  but  she  was  always  taking  on 
about  something  or  other. 

And,  indeed,  Peter  Dolan  had  undergone  more  than  one  bad 
quarter  of  an  hour  since  Maud's  departure.  He  did  not,  as  a 
rule,  pay  much  attention  to  his  wife's  grumblings ;  an  oath  or  a 
blow  usually  put  an  end  to  them.  But  even  he  cowered  a  little 
under  the  repeated  accusation  that  he  had  driven  his  own  daugh- 
ter out  into  the  streets. 

"  Maud  was  niver  a  bad  gyurl,"  Mrs.  Dolan  would  say,  sob- 
bing. "She  had  her  notions,  but  she  wasn't  a  bad  gyurl.  An' 
it  was  yerself,  Peter  Dolan,  that  druv  her  away  from  her  home." 

"  Dom  you  and  your  whirnperin' !"  Dolan  burst  out  on  one  oc- 
casion. "  Is  a  man  niver  to  have  any  pace  at  all  for  the  likes 
o'  ye  ?" 

"  Arrah !  it's  no  pace  I  have  thinkin'  of  her,"  cried  poor 
Mrs.  Dolan. 

"  I  didn't  mane  to  drive  her  away,"  said  Dolan,  sulkily.  "  If 
she  hadn't  give  me  her  impertinence — dom  the  furriners  who 
put  all  sorts  of  ijees  in  a  dacent  gyurl's  head." 

"  She  was  that  proud,  Maud  was,"  Mrs.  Dolan  said. 

Her  husband  rose  from  his  chair  with  a  curse.  "  You'd  be 
afther  drivin'  a  saint  crazy,"  he  said,  putting  on  his  hat.  "  Isn't 
it  bad  enough  for  a  man  to  be  out  of  wurruk  widout  you  rowing 
all  the  time  ?" 

"  Wurruk  is  it  ?  an'  perhaps  ye're  lukin'  for  wurruk  now  ?" 

"  Shut  yer  mouth  an'  be  dommed  to  you  !"  was  Dolan's  ami- 
able reply  as  he  left  her. 

This  was  in  the  autumn,  after  Maud  had  been  gone  some 
weeks,  and  the  head  of  the  family  was  still  trying  to  exist  with- 
out earning  any  regular  wages.  How  he  got  the  money  to  buy 

262 


so  much  whiskey  was  a  mystery  which  Mrs.  Dolan  could  not 
fathom.  He  slouched  away  now  in  the  direction  of  Eliot  Street. 
This  was  one  of  the  nights  when  the  club  met,  and  he  was  sure 
of  a  comfortable  shelter  for  as  long  as  he  chose  to  stay,  even  al- 
though he  had  only  money  enough  in  his  pocket  for  a  single 
glass.  Pie  counted  on  borrowing  tobacco  to  fill  his  pipe ;  no 
one  could  refuse  that  request,  even  although  he  always  borrowed 
and  never  lent.  He  had  begun  to  think  that  in  other  respects 
the  club  wasn't  much  good.  Those  fellows  were  always  talking 
about  dividing  up  the  wealth  of  the  men  who  lived  in  Beacon 
Street  and  Commonwealth  Avenue,  but  here  he  was  still  out  of 
work  and  with  no  prospect  of  getting  any.  He  wouldn't  have 
minded  that  so  much  if  the  money  had  come  without  working, 
which  was  what  he  thought  Ditton  and  the  rest  intended  to 
bring  about. 

The  room  was  not  more  than  half  full  when  Dolan  got  there. 
He  shuffled  along  to  one  of  the  obscurest  tables,  feeling  half 
ashamed  to  be  seen  when  he  had  so  little  to  spend,  and  remem- 
bering how  long  it  wj-3  since  he  had  dropped  even  a  penny  in 
the  hat  which  was  passed  around  at  each  meeting.  Only  a  few 
of  the  men  were  as  shabby  as  himself.  Most  of  those  who  were 
concerned  in  the  strike  of  last  summer  at  the  works  had  found 
other  jobs  by  this  time ;  some  of  them  came  no  longer  to  the 
meetings,  perhaps  because  Socialism  was  less  attractive  when 
they  were  earning  good  pay.  There  was  no  speaking  going  on 
just  yet,  although  Ditton  and  Luck  were  both  present,  talking 
earnestly  together  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  room.  Luck  had 
been  away  for  several  weeks,  conducting  a  strike  at  Worcester, 
which  was  now  settled  by  the  action  of  the  manufacturers  in 
granting  the  advance  demanded  by  their  men ;  a  result  which 
gave  the  agitator  an  increased  air  of  importance,  and  also  led 
him  to  sport  a  very  flashy  diamond  in  his  brilliant  purple  and  scar- 
let necktie.  Dolan  watched  him  with  an  angry  feeling  that  some- 
thing must  be  wrong  when  one  man  could  be  so  prosperous  and 
another  so  hard  up.  Where  did  he  come  in,  anyway  ?  he  asked 
himself.  "  Gimme  a  whiskey — a  good  stiff  un,"  he  said,  beck- 
oning to  a  waiter,  and  putting  down  his  sole  remaining  dime. 

It  was  while  he  was  drinking  this  that  Luck  came  over  to 

263 


his  corner  and  sat  down  beside  him.  "  Well,  Dolan,"  he  asked, 
cheerfully,  "  how  are  you  getting  on  ?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  a  regerler  Jay  Gould,  I  am !"  said  Dolan,  sarcasti- 
cally. "  I'm  a  gintleman  of  laysure,  livin'  on  me  money." 

"  You  hain't  found  another  job,  then  ?" 

"  No,  I  hain't,  an'  be  dommed  to  you !"  Dolan  growled,  setting 
down  his  empty  glass. 

"  What  are  you  blaming  me  for  ?"  demanded  Luck.  "  Come, 
now,  have  another  glass  with  me.  I  want  to  talk  with  you." 

"  Talk  away,  then,"  said  the  other,  but  not  quite  so  gruffly. 
The  prospect  of  more  whiskey  was  distinctly  mollifying. 

"  It  wa'n't  my  fault  the  strike  didn't  succeed.  But  never  mind 
that,  now.  I've  got  another  job  for  you." 

"  Who  said  I  was  afther  wantin'  a  job  ?" 

"Well,  I  guess  you'll  want  this,"  said  Luck,  with  a  rather 
vindictive  laugh.  "  Have  you  seen  Baretta  lately  ?" 

"  Baretta  ?  No,  dom  him,  an'  if  I  do,  I'll  punch  his  bloody 
head !" 

"  That's  the  way  to  talk — the  damned  sneak !  Oh,  I  ain't 
through  with  him  yet ;  I'll  teach  him  to  call  me  a  scoundrel. 
See  here,  Dolan,"  Luck  went  on,  leaning  forward,  and  speaking 
in  a  lower  tone,  "you  don't  like  the  fellow  any  better  than 
I  do." 

Dolan's  reply  was  a  volley  of  oaths  and  curses.  "  Loike  him, 
is  it  ?"  he  sputtered  at  last.  "  Whin  he  tuk  my  gyurl  away 
from  me,  and  her  a  dacent  gyurl !"  Dolan  cried. 

"  Oh,  he  did  that,  did  he  ?  And  he  hit  you  over  the  head,  too 
— don't  you  remember?  What  would  you  say  to  a  chance  to 
pay  him  out?" 

More  oaths  and  curses  followed  this  question. 

"  Let's  have  another  drink,"  said  Luck,  an  evil  smile  playing 
for  a  moment  about  his  lips.  "I  guess  you'll  like  the  job  I've 
got  for  you." 

"  Is  it  murther  ye  mane  ?"  asked  Dolan,  sinking  his  voice  to  a 
whisper. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  get  scared,  Dolan  ;  it's  nothing  that  can  bring 
you  into  any  trouble.  It's  only  to  find  out  a  few  things  I  want 
to  know.  But  I  ain't  sure  you  can  do  it,"  he  added,  dubiously. 

264 


"  You've  got  to  keep  a  level  head  on  you — no  getting  drunk  or 
street  rows,  or  anything  of  that  sort." 

"  Dhrunk  ?  I  can  kape  as  sober  as  ony  man  whin  I  loike — 
I'd  have  ye  know  that." 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  can.  Anyway,  I  think  you're  the  man  I 
want.  ]STow,  see  here,  Dolan,"  Luck  said,  taking  a  bank-note 
from  his  pocket;  "there's  five  dollars.  It's  yours  if  you  do 
what  I  tell  you  and  keep  your  mouth  shut." 

"  Foive  dollars !"  cried  Dolan,  putting  out  an  eager  hand  for 
the  money.  It  was  a  long  time  since  he  had  owned  five  dollars. 

"  Hush,  you  fool !  I  don't  want  these  fellows  to  hear.  And 
mind — not  a  word  to  Ditton." 

"  Thrust  me,"  said  Dolan,  pocketing  the  money.  "  Have  a 
whiskey  wid  me." 

"  No,  no — keep  your  money.  Besides,  you've  got  to  keep 
sober  if  you're  going  to  help  me.  It's  just  like  this,"  Luck 
said,  bending  over  the  table  again  after  a  cautious  glance  about 
the  room;  "that  cuss  is  playing  some  game,  though  I  don't 
know  what  it  is.  I  don't  believe  your  girl's  with  him  ;  but  that's 
neither  here  nor  there.  Baron  Something-or-other  he  calls  him- 
self. But  you  and  me  know  better  'n  that,  I  guess." 

"  The  dom  f urriner  !"  growled  Dolan. 

"  He's  in  with  all  the  nobs,  anyhow ;  I  seen  him  coming  out 
of  a  house  over  on  Beacon  Street  yesterday.  What's  his  game  ? 
That's  the  thing.  Who  says  he's  a  baron.  I  read  a  lot  of  stuff 
in  the  papers  about  his  castle  at  some  jaw-breaking  place  over 
on  the  other  side ;  but  that  was  a  plant — any  damn  fool  could 
see  as  much.  What's  he  after  among  the  swells — the  dirty 
scoundrel  ?  And  him  calling  me  a  scoundrel — me  !  I'll  bet  I'm 
as  honest  a  man  as  him." 

"  How  do  I  be  afther  knowin'  ?"  asked  Dolan.  "  What  is  it  I 
can  do  ?  I  s'pose  ye  want  me  to  stip  up  and  ring  the  dure-bells 
and  tell  them  he's  a  dom  loafer." 

"  Don't  talk  like  a  fool,  Dolan !"  said  Luck,  sharply.  "  I  tell 
you  it's  a  plant,  and  I  want  to  find  out  what.  I  don't  care 
whether  the  nobs  let  him  in  the  front  door  or  the  back ;  that's 
their  lookout.  But  I'm  going  to  pay  him  out  for  what  he  said 
to  me,  don't  you  forget  it." 

265 


"  Oh,  bother  yer  payin'  him  out.  Tell  me  what  ye're  afther 
wantin'  me  to  do  to  him  ?" 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  do  nothing  to  him.  I  want  you  to 
watch  him." 

"  Watch  him,  is  it  ?  Sure,  that  would  be  aisy  done,  if  I  knew 
where  he  was." 

"  I  can  tell  you  that.  I've  got  the  number  here,"  said  Luck, 
producing  a  rather  greasy  piece  of  pasteboard.  "  It's  a  girl  I 
know  got  his  card  from  the  tray  in  the  hall.  He  comes  hanging 
round  her  young  missus — that's  what  he  does,  the  bloody  beast ! 
I  saw  him  coming  out  of  the  house,  and  I  buzzed  her  about  it." 

"  Ye're  a  rale  gaynius,  Luck !"  exclaimed  Dolan,  admiringly, 
as  he  examined  the  card.  "  And  so  yer  gyurl  give  yer  this,  did 
she?  The  durrty  furriner  !"  added  Dolan,  referring  to  the  Baron 
Smolzow,  and  not  to  Luck's  friend  in  the  servants'  hall. 

"She  is  only  a  lady  friend  of  mine,"  said  Luck,  anxious  to 
correct  any  misapprehension  as  to  his  relations  with  that  young 
woman.  "  I  have  a  good  many  lady  friends,"  he  added,  adjust- 
ing his  diamond  in  his  necktie  by  an  imaginary  looking-glass, 
while  a  condescending  smile  was  visible  for  a  moment  on  his 
red  and  puffy  face. 

"  An'  phwat  am  I  to  do  when  I  find  the  place  ?"  Dolan  asked, 
being  more  interested  in  the  object  of  his  mission  than  in  Luck's 
lady  friends. 

"  Do  !  why,  watch  him,  of  course,  that's  all.  Just  keep  out 
of  the  way,  but  watch  him.  You  needn't  hang  round  all  day, 
of  course,  but  have  an  eye  on  him.  See  ?  And  find  out  who 
the  other  foreigner  is  that's  hanging  around.  I  bet  they've  got 
an  eye  on  somebody's  silver — and  him  to  call  me  a  scoundrel !" 

"  Another  furriner  ?  how  them  dom  cusses  hang  togither  1" 

"Well,  don't  you  get  into  any  row  with  them — see?  It 
would  spoil  the  game.  I  don't  know  as  you're  the  right  man, 
anyway,  but  I  guess  you  hate  him  about  as  bad  as  I  do,  and 
that's  something.  I  would  be  mighty  careful  in  the  daytime; 
he  might  spot  you.  The  old  chap  looks  foxy — knows  more 
than  the  young  one,  I  bet.  Hang  round  there  evenings — that's 
the  best  plan.  And  when  you  bring  me  some  news  I'll  give 
you  some  more  money." 

266 


"  A  mon  can't  live  foriver  on  foive  dollars,"  grumbled  Dolan. 

"  Well,  if  you're  smart  you  won't  need  to.  Look  in  Thursday 
night  and  let  me  know.  Hold  on,  though,  meet  me  on  the  cor- 
ner of  Tremont  and  Boylston  streets  at  eight.  That's  better — 
we  mustn't  be  seen  together  too  much.  There's  Ditton  looking 
at  us  now.  And  keep  straight,  or  it  will  be  worse  ft>r  you — see  ?" 
added  Luck,  in  a  bullying  manner,  as  he  rose  from  the  table  and 
walked  away. 

Dolan  was  inclined  to  resent  the  tone  of  this  last  piece  of  ad- 
vice, but  he  remembered  the  five  dollars  in  his  pocket,  and 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  nothing  would  be  gained  by  yield- 
ing to  this  impulse.  He  ordered  another  glass  of  whiskey,  and 
flung  down  the  note  in  a  lordly  way  before  the  astonished 
waiter,  who  took  it  with  an  unfounded  suspicion  that  it  must 
be  counterfeit.  Dolan's  ideas  of  what  he  was  to  do  were  still 
very  vague,  and  he  thought  that  more  whiskey  might  perhaps 
clarify  them.  He  did  not  pay  much  attention  to  Ditton's  talk 
that  evening,  or  to  Luck's  boastful  account  of  the  successful 
strike  at  Worcester.  He  was  thinking  of  his  revenge  upon  that 
"  dom  f urriner."  He  would  have  some  sort  of  revenge,  after  he 
had  found  out  what  Luck  wanted  to  know.  He  walked  home 
rather  unsteadily  that  night — the  whiskey  had  not  had  a  clarify- 
ing effect,  after  all — but  when  he  awoke  the  next  morning  he 
surprised  his  wife  by  giving  her  a  dollar  and  telling  her  he  had 
got  a  job.  When  she  asked  him  if  they  had  taken  him  back  at 
the  works  he  roughly  advised  her  not  to  be  a  fool ;  nor  would 
he  enlighten  her  in  any  way  as  to  the  nature  of  his  employment. 
It  seemed  a  good  deal  like  a  fool's-errand  to  go  and  hang  about 
the  house  where  Baretta  lived.  He  kept  it  up  two  days,  and 
only  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the  man  whom  Luck  had 
called  the  other  foreigner  go  in  and  out  several  times.  But  on 
the  third  day,  shambling  along  just  after  dark  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  street,  he  saw  the  door  open  and  two  persons  come 
out.  One  was  Baretta.  He  did  not  need  to  look  twice  to  rec- 
ognize him.  But  who  was  the  woman?  Dolan  crossed  the 
street  stealthily  and  followed  them  a  few  steps.  When  they 
came  to  a  corner  they  stood  waiting  for  a  street-car,  and  as  the 
woman  turned  to  speak  to  her  companion  the  gaslight  fell  full  upon 

267 


her  face.  Maud  !  no  one  else  but  Maud.  Dolan  fell  back  with 
a  smothered  curse,  clinching  his  fist*  It  was  true  that  the  young 
man  had  taken  away  his  girl,  that  she  was  living  with  him  here. 
Dolan  was  not  a  tender  father ;  he  himself  had  driven  away  his 
daughter  from  her  home.  But  this  confirmation  of  the  worst 
that  could  htppen  stirred  in  him  a  fury  of  remorseful  wrath 
that  might  have  vented  itself  then  and  there  had  not  the  street- 
car come  along  just  at  the  moment.  "  The  dom  villain  !"  mut- 
tered Dolan,  staggering  back  with  a  despairing  groan.  Then  he 
hurried  after  the  car  and  swung  himself  upon  the  front  platform, 
turning  up  his  coat-collar  so  that  he  could  not  easily  be  recog- 
nized, although  in  the  darkness  there  was  not  much  danger  of 
that.  "  The  dom  villain  !"  repeated  Dolan.  There  would  be 
news  enough  to  tell  Luck  to-night. 

268 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
"HOW  CAN  SHE  ENDURE  HIM?" 

YATES  heard  of  the  success  of  Baron  Smolzow's  "  afternoon  " 
from  one  of  the  Baron's  guests.  He  had  not  once  thought  of 
going  himself.  His  distrust  of  the  Baron  was  something  which 
he  could  not  overcome.  He  tried  to  argue  himself  into  feeling 
that  it  was  unfounded,  as  indeed  it  appeared  to  be.  But  in- 
stinct in  this  case  was  stronger  than  reason.  However  badly  he 
had  been  brought  up,  the  heir  of  a  noble  house  would  at  least 
have  been  a  gentleman.  Perhaps  Philip  did  not  scrutinize  his 
motives  for  holding  this  view  any  too  closely  ;  few  of  us  do 
when  our  motives  are  not  unimpeachable.  He  would  have  re- 
sented the  imputation  that  he  was  envious  of  Baretta's  success. 
At  the  same  time  that  curious  sense  of  rivalry  continued  to 
possess  him — a  rivalry  that  was  hopeless,  since  he  himself  was 
a  failure.  He  had  given  up  his  literary  ambitions  just  as  he 
had  given  up  all  hope  of  a  reconciliation  with  Miss  Lawrence. 
But  his  annoyance  was  intense  whenever  he  heard  her  name 
coupled  with  Baretta's,  as  it  had  been  several  times  of  late. 
Why  should  she  throw  herself  away  upon  such  a  fellow  as 
that  ?  What  were  her  friends  thinking  of  that  they  permitted 
it  ?  He  could  not  have  thought  of  such  a  thing  with  patience 
even  if  he  had  believed  in  Baretta's  honesty,  as  he  had  done  be- 
fore this  preposterous  claim  to  a  title  had  been  advanced;  al- 
though, of  course,  if  there  had  been  no  title  in  question,  no  one 
else  would  have  thought  of  irt. 

Mr.  Allen  gave  him  an  account  of  the  Baron's  social  triumph. 
He  was  not  at  all  anxious  to  listen,  but  Mr.  Allen  kept  on  with 
amiable  persistence,  and  would  not  be  shaken  off.  The  author 

269 


of  Ro^nd  the  Zodiac  in  Rhyme  seldom  came  to  the  Pilgrim ;  he 
preferred,  as  a  rule,  the  companionship  of  the  gentler  sex.  He 
found  women  more  appreciative,  more  sympathetic,  than  men, 
and  this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  had  lately  taken  to  im- 
peaching their  manners  in  the  Northern  Review.  He  liked  to 
talk  of  literature  and  art,  on  which  occasions  the  fellows  at  the 
club  were  apt  to  guy  him.  But  he  had  some  of  the  weaknesses 
of  humanity  after  all,  and  a  love  of  gossip  was  one  of  them. 

"  You  ought  to  iave  been  at  our  friend  the  Baron's  yester- 
day," said  Mr.  Allen,  coming  up  behind  Philip  as  he  stood  at 
one  of  the  long  windows  in  the  front  of  the  club-house  gazing 
indifferently  across  the  Common.  "  It  would  have  amused  you 
immensely." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  imply  that  he  is  my  friend,"  said 
Philip,  rather  sharply. 

"  Oh,  have  you  washed  your  hands  of  him  ?  Well,  I  dare  say 
that's  the  wise  thing  to  do.  Still,  you  know,  Mrs.  Gregorson  has 
taken  him  up.  She  was  there — in  her  most  patronizing  mood." 

"  I  don't  go  in  for  that  sort  of  thing  very  much." 

"  Well,  I  fancied  you  might  make  an  exception  in  this  case, 
because  you  are  interested  in  him.  But,  of  course,  if  you  are 
no  longer  on  good  terms  with  him — " 

"  See  here,  Allen,"  said  Philip,  "  I  can't  understand  why 
every  one  is  forever  throwing  the  fellow  in  my  face."  He  was 
thinking  of  Mrs.  Cadwallader  as  he  spoke ;  but  Mr.  Allen  did 
not  know  this,  and  so  he  concluded  that  something  had  put 
Yates  in  a  deuce  of  a  temper.  "  Good  heavens !"  Philip  went 
on,  "  what  do  I  know  of  him  more  than  any  of  the  rest  of  you  ? 
It's  true  that  I  got  acquainted  with  him  some  time  ago,  and 
that  he  interested  me  at  first ;  and  I  dare  say  I  may  have  asked 
him  here  to  dinner  once  or  twice.  But  I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
this  baron  business ;  I  wouldn't  even  pretend  to  give  an  opinion 
about  it." 

"  Oh,  I  understand  that,  Yates ;  I  quite  appreciate  your  po- 
sition. But  then,  you  know,  people  will  insist  on  putting  the 
responsibility  upon  somebody." 

"  Well,  let  them  choose  some  one  else.  Mind  you,  I  wouldn't 
say  a  word  against  him  or  his  claims ;  I  don't  really  know  more 

270 


about  either  than  you  do.  What  folly  it  is  to  drag  me  into  it, 
anyway !  He  has  enough  influential  friends  now — let  them  de- 
cide for  themselves." 

"  Ah,  that  is  all  very  well,"  said  Mr.  Allen,  "  but  we  know 
what  these  people  are.  I  dare  say  he's  Baron  Smolzow  fast 
enough  ;  that  was  a  mighty  clever  story  in  the  papers.  And  yet 
I'd  be  willing  to  bet  that  there's  something  behind  we  don't  un- 
derstand. At  all  events,  if  I  were  Sibley  Lawrence  I  wouldn't 
let  my  daughter — " 

"  We  won't  discuss  Mr.  Lawrence's  affairs,  if  you  please,"  in- 
terrupted Philip,  curtly. 

"  You  seem  to  be  in  a  devil  of  a  temper,  Yates.  What  has 
put  you  out  so  much  ?  Of  course,  as  you  say,  these  people  can 
mix  themselves  up  with  the  fellow's  affairs  all  they  please ;  it 
will  be  no  one's  fault  but  their  own  if  anything  disagreeable 
comes  of  it." 

"  I  dare  say,  I  dare  say,"  murmured  Philip,  vaguely.  "  I  beg 
your  pardon,  Allen — I  am  a  little  out  of  sorts  to-day." 

"  That's  the  trouble — you  don't  go  about  enough,  you  don't 
take  all  the  enjoyment  out  of  life  that  you  ought.  Do  you  sup- 
pose that  I  fancy  these  affairs  ?  that  I  like  weak  tea  and  dry 
biscuit  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  ?  I  wouldn't  dare  say  so 
to  everybody,  but  I  know  you  won't  give  me  away.  But  it's  a 
sort  of  duty,  don't  you  know,  to  study  the  human  race  under  all 
conditions  and  circumstances — at  least,  when  you're  going  in 
for  literature.  Why  don't  you  try  it  ?" 

"  Ah,  but  you  see  I  don't  go  in  for  anything  just  now." 

"  Well,  you  missed  it  by  not  turning  up  at  the  Baron's.  Mrs. 
Tom  came,  after  all,  and  stared  at  the  animals  a  while.  Well,  it 
was  a  queer  crowd,"  Mr.  Allen  went  on  with  a  laugh.  "  Every 
one  was  all  right  enough,  of  course,  only  there  were  so  many 
people  who  didn't  know  one  another.  By-the-way,  Mrs.  Cadwal- 
lader  sent  her  husband  to  represent  her.  He  stood  in  a  corner 
most  of  the  time,  and  looked  as  if  he  were  at  a  funeral.  I  be- 
lieve he  did  manage  to  have  a  few  words  with  Mrs.  Tom.  Miss 
Lawrence  and  Miss  Annie  Linley — she's  a  much  prettier  girl 
than  her  sister — sat  at  the  table  in  a  solemn  way  and  poured  tea, 
and  Miss  Varian — have  you  seen  her  in  the  new  piece  at  the 

271 


Lyceum  ?  she's  really  charming — talked  nearly  all  the  afternoon 
with  a  red-headed  German  in  the  Symphony,  and  looked  bored 
to  death.  However,  that's  the  usual  thing,  don't  you  know. 
The  real  joke  was  the  Baron  himself.  By-the-way,"  said  Mr. 
Allen,  suddenly  perceiving  that  Yates  was  not  listening  very 
intently,  "  there's  something  queer  about  that  secretary  of  his — 
you  remember  the  story  in  the  papers,  don't  you  ?  He  looks 
enough  like  the  Baron  to  be  his  father.  It's  a  striking  likeness. 
I  couldn't  imagine  at  first  whom  it  was  he  reminded  me  of,  but 
afterwards  it  came  over  me  like  a  flash.  By  Jove !  Yates — it 
might  be  his  father !" 

"  I  don't  understand  you.     His  father  died  years  ago." 
"But  he  might  come  to  life  again,  eh?     Anyway,  it's  an  ex- 
traordinary resemblance." 

Mr.  Allen's  suggestion  kept  recurring  to  Philip  afterwards, 
although  he  tried  to  treat  it  at  the  time  as  a  foolish  one.  He 
knew  that  Mr.  Allen  had  a  lively  imagination,  and  he  sincerely 
hoped  that  it  had  misled  him  in  this  case.  It  was  a  melan- 
choly satisfaction,  at  best,  to  find  his  own  distrust  of  Baretta 
confirmed  in  this  unexpected  manner.  The  worst  of  it  was 
that  Mildred  was  likely  to  be  involved  in  any  scandal.  He 
would  do  a  good  deal  to  prevent  that ;  and  yet,  after  all, 
what  was  it  that  he  could  do  ?  Why  did  her  friends  let 
such  a  fellow  as  that  draw  her  into  his  schemes  ?  What 
were  they  thinking  of  ?  Some  one  ought  to  tell  Mr.  Lawrence 
what  people  were  saying.  When  he  found  a  note  from  Daisy 
Tredwell  at  his  rooms  the  next  day,  asking  him  to  come  and  see 
her,  he  wondered  if  she,  too,  had  heard  this  idle  gossip,  and  if 
he  might  not  appeal  to  her.  He  felt  that  she  would  understand, 
that  she  would  not  misinterpret  his  motives.  He  had  quite 
forgiven  her  for  the  unlucky  interference  that  had  made  him  so 
angry  at  the  time.  Somehow  or  other  he  was  very  grateful  for 
her  sympathy.  He  was  not  one  to  wear  his  heart  upon  his 
sleeve,  and  yet  sympathy  meant  so  much  to  him,  who  had  so 
little  of  it.  "  I  shall  help  you  yet,"  Daisy  had  said.  He  took 
a  ridiculous  satisfaction  in  recalling  her  words,  although  he 
knew  that  what  she  promised  was  impossible.  Who  could  help 
him  in  such  a  case  ? — and  Daisy  least  of  all.  Nevertheless  he 

272 


was  grateful.  If  it  had  been  Daisy  whom  he  had  loved  instead 
of  Mildred  perhaps  he  would  have  been  happier  than  he  could 
now  ever  hope  to  be.  But  was  it  not  a  part  of  the  irony  of  fate 
that  the  one  woman  who  had  understood  him,  who  had  said  that 
she  still  believed  in  him,  he  did  not  love  at  all  ?  He  hoped  that 
the  day  would  come  when  the  old  wound  would  no  longer  throb 
with  pain,  but  he  knew  that  he  must  go  down  to  his  grave  bear- 
ing the  scar.  To  love  any  one  but  Mildred,  even  after  he  had 
ceased  to  love  her,  was  something  so  impossible  that  he  put  it 
out  of  his  head  altogether. 

"  I  hope  you'll  forgive  me  for  troubling  you,"  Daisy  said, 
when  she  saw  him.  She  held  out  her  hand,  and  he  took  it  in 
his,  while  he  stood  looking  down  into  her  blue  eyes,  which  were 
very  soft  and  appealing  just  then.  "  But,  oh  !  I  did  want  to 
talk  to  you  so  much  !  And  I  knew  you  would  understand." 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  me,  Daisy,"  said  Philip,  gravely. 
They  sat  down  near  a  window  looking  upon  the  Mall,  facing 
each  other,  and  for  a  moment  neither  spoke. 

"  I'm  a  dreadful  blunderer,"  said  Daisy,  at  last,  "  and  if  I  hurt 
your  feelings  in  any  way  you  must  forgive  me.  But  there  is  no 
one  else  who  cares  as  much  as  we  do,  and — and  oh !  we  must  pre- 
vent it !  I  am  so  angry  that  I  don't  know  what  to  do,  and  yet 
she  won't  listen  to  a  word  from  me.  You  must  help  me,  Philip 
— you  must  tell  me  how  to  save  her.  A  person  like  that !  It's 
really  too  dreadful !" 

This  was  not  a  very  lucid  explanation,  to  be  sure,  but  Philip 
understood  it.  "  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  he  asked,  pale  and 
serious,  "that  there  is  really  anything  in  it?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  !  I  don't  know !  Sometimes  I  think  there 
isn't,  but  then  she  will  never  hear  a  word  against  him.  And  to 
go  to  his  reception,  and  make  herself  so  conspicuous — pouring 
tea  and  all  that,  making  every  one  talk — oh,  I  will  never  forgive 
Mrs.  Cbilton  for  it — never,  never !" 

"  It  is  hardly  Mrs.  Chilton's  fault.  I  dare  say  she  believes 
that  he  is  what  he  pretends  to  be,  and  that  others,  as  well  as 
she  herself,  can  decide  for  themselves.  And,  after  all,  Daisy, 
we  know  nothing  to  the  contrary." 

"  It  isn't  that,  altogether  ;    it's  himself.     How  can  any  one 

s  273 


think  that  he  is  even  a  gentleman  ?  But  I  know  that  it's  all  a 
deception — I  am  sure  of  it.  He  is  afraid  that  the  truth  will 
come  out.  He  suspects  me — he  shows  very  plainly  that  there 
is  some  secret  that  he  doesn't  wish  to  have  discovered.  If  I 
only  knew  what  it  was !  Don't  you  know,  Philip  1  Oh,  if  you 
do,  it  isn't  right  to  keep  silence  any  longer." 

"  I  know  nothing — nothing !" 

"  But  you  have  seen  more  of  him  than  the  rest  of  us — he 
used  to  be  a  friend  of  yours." 

"And  do  you  think  it  would  be  honourable,  even  if  I  did  know 
anything,  to  make  use  of  my  knowledge  ?  What  would  you 
think  of  me  ?  What  would  she  say  ?" 

"  I  was  sure  you  could  help  me !"  cried  Daisy,  laying  a  trem- 
bling hand  on  his.  "  And  surely  you  won't  refuse  what  I  ask — 
for  her  sake." 

"  I  could  refuse  nothing  in  reason  to  you — or  to  her,"  Philip 
answered.  "  But  you  are  quite  wrong  to  think  that  it  is  in 
my  power  to  interfere."  He  turned  away  his  face  as  he  spoke, 
and  his  eyes  rested  upon  the  leafless  trees  in  the  Mall.  He  was 
thinking  of  that  day  in  spring  when  he  spoke  to  Mildred  for 
the  last  time  out  there,  and  she  told  him  that  she  could  never 
forgive  him.  "  Never  is  a  long  word,"  he  heard  himself  saying. 
And  now  what  could  he  do  to  save  her  ? 

"  It  is  only  pride  on  your  part — it  is  not  a  question  of  honour 
at  all !"  Daisy  said.  "  Because  you  fear  that  some  one  will 
misconstrue  your  motives,  you  will  not  say  a  word.  Don't  yon 
realize  how  terrible  it  would  be  ? — to  have  things  go  on  like 
this,  and  then  to  find  out  the  truth  ?  Anything  would  be  better 
than  that.  People  are  beginning  to  talk  already — oh  yes,  I 
know  what  they  say  !  And  to  think  that  she  can  be  deceived 
by  his  pretences  for  a  moment." 

"  You  are  a  little  unjust,  Daisy,"  said  Philip,  after  a  moment 
of  silence. 

"  Unjust !  It  is  you  who  are  unjust !  There,  forgive  me — 
I  knew  I  should  offend  you.  But  I  am  so  fond  of  her,  and  it 
drives  me  fairly  wild  that  I  can  do  nothing." 

"  Don't  consider  me  ungrateful."  Philip  rose  and  walked  up 
and  down  the  room  several  times,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him, 

274 


his  brows  knitted  in  anxious  thought.  "  Daisy,"  he  said  at  last, 
"  I  will  do  anything  I  can.  But  believe  me,  that  I  know  abso- 
lutely no  more  than  you  do.  He  never  talked  to  me  particularly 
about  his  past ;  all  this  story  is  as  new  to  me  as  to  every  one 
else.  Why  should  I  say  it  isn't  true  ?" 

"  And  yet  you  believe  it  isn't." 

"  Yes.  I  don't  know  why,  but  that  is  so.  And  yet  I  am  the 
last  man  in  the  world  who  should  say  anything.  If  I  could  go 
to  her  and  warn  her — but  what  is  the  use  of  thinking  of  that  ?" 
Philip  cried,  bitterly. 

"  Philip !"  said  Daisy  —  and  were  there  not  tears  in  the 
piteous  blue  eyes? — "it  may  not  be  quite  so  hopeless  as 
you  think.  She  cares  for  you  yet  —  oh,  I  am  sure  that  she 
does  !" 

"  Do  you  understand  what  you  are  saying  ?"  he  asked.  "  If 
I  am  to  help  you — or  her — you  must  put  that  notion  out  of 
your  head.  I  do  not  deceive  myself  for  a  moment.  And  I 
must  ask  you  not  to  speak  of  it  again." 

"  I  told  you  what  a  blunderer  I  was,"  said  Daisy,  penitently. 
"  But  I  shall  remember  your  promise  to  do  anything  you  can. 
You  must  come  if  I  send  for  you." 

She  remained  deep  in  thought  long  after  Philip  had  left  her. 
Then  she  arose  and  went  up-stairs  and  dressed  for  the  street. 
"  I  don't  care  if  she  never  speaks  to  me  again,"  Daisy  thought. 
"  I  will  have  my  say  first."  Oh,  how  exasperating  it  was  that  a 
girl  like  Mildred  should  be  capable  of  such  folly  !  To  throw 
over  a  man  like  Philip  for  this  low-born  foreign  adventurer ! 
And  what  wrong  had  Philip  done  ?  None — absolutely  none. 
She  herself  would  not  have  treated  him  so.  Perhaps  she  did 
not  realize  that  she  might  cherish  for  him  some  stronger  feeling 
than  sympathy.  If  this  were  so  she  was  playing  a  generous 
part  just  now.  "  She  does  not  deserve  him,"  Daisy  said  to  her- 
self, angrily,  as  she  walked  up  Mount  Vernon  Street  in  the 
waning  November  afternoon. 

"  I  am  going  to  have  a  very  serious  talk  with  you,"  was  what 
she  told  Mildred.  She  had  resolved  to  be  as  diplomatic  as  pos- 
sible, to  say  nothing  of  Philip,  to  give  her  friend  no  reason  to 
suspect  why  she  had  come.  She  recalled  the  curious  fact  that 

275 


in  her  conversation  with  Philip  neither  Mildred's  name  nor  Ba- 
retta's  had  once  been  mentioned. 

"  Oh,  dear !  that's  a  formidable  beginning,"  said  Mildred, 
smiling.  "  What  have  I  done  to  offend  you  now  ?" 

"  Why  should  you  think  I  am  offended  ?  Does  your  con- 
science trouble  you  ?  I  wish  some  other  people  had  consciences 
to  trouble  them,"  Daisy  added,  rather  spitefully. 

"  Well,  if  I'm  not  in  your  bad  graces,  Daisy,  who  is  ?" 

"  I  didn't  say  any  one  was.  Isn't  it  an  awfully  dismal  kind 
of  day.  Oh !"  cried  Daisy,  suddenly,  with  a  fine  assumption  of 
carelessness,  "did  you  enjoy  yourself  at  the  Baron's  yester- 
day ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mildred,  coolly.  She  suspected  now  why  it  was 
that  her  friend  had  threatened  a  serious  talk.  How  absurdly 
unjust  Daisy  was  to  those  she  didn't  fancy  ! 

"  Of  course  every  one  was  there.  Mrs.  Chilton  and  all  the 
tribe — and  Mr.  Pinkerton — did  he  go  ?  he  doesn't  love  the  Bar- 
on— and  Mr.  Allen,  of  course  ;  he  goes  everywhere." 

"  Mr.  Cadwallader  and  Mrs.  Gregorson  looked  in  for  a  little 
while." 

"  Mrs.  Tom  ?  Really  ?  Oh,  what  fun  it  must  have  been  !  The 
Baron  will  be  at  the  top  of  the  heap  now." 

"  Daisy  !     You're  getting  to  be  very  slangy." 

"  And  who  poured  tea  ?" 

"Annie  Linley — and  I." 

"  You  !  Oh,  Mildred,  I  didn't  really  think  you'd  go  quite  so 
far  as  that.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  !"  Daisy  cried, 
forgetting  that  she  had  resolved  to  be  very  diplomatic. 

"  I  think  you  are  forgetting  yourself,"  said  Mildred,  haughtily. 
"  I  cannot  help  it  if  you  choose  to  ridicule  and  malign  Baron 
Smolzow,  but  at  least  you  can  refrain  from  insulting  me." 

"  Insulting  you  !  Who  would  insult  you — unless  he  would  ? 
Oh,  1  don't  care  if  you  never  speak  to  me  again.  I  will  tell  you 
the  truth  now.  Baron  ? — he's  no  baron  at  all ;  he's  a  low  advent- 
urer, and  he's  trying  to  compromise  you  so  that  you  can't  refuse 
him.  Yes,"  cried  Daisy,  as  Mildred  rose  from  her  chair  with  an 
angry  flush,  "  that's  just  what  he's  doing,  and  you  needn't  pre- 
tend to  misunderstand  me  by  thinking  I  mean  more  than  I  do. 

276 


He  wants  people  to  talk  about  your  being  engaged  to  him,  and 
all  that,  and  then  he  thinks  he  can  trap  you.  Baron  Smolzow  ! 
Why,  I  tell  you  that  when  I  have  said  things  to  him  I  have  seen 
him  start  back,  half  scared  to  death — afraid  of  me — that  I  had 
discovered  something.  You  know  yourself  that  he  isn't  a  gen- 
tleman, and  yet  you  go  on  encouraging  him.  Oh,  Mildred !" 
Daisy  said,  stamping  her  foot  impatiently,  "  I'd  just  like  to 
shake  you  until  you  come  to  your  senses !  And  I'm  not  the 
only  one  who  asks,  '  How  can  she  endure  him  ?'  " 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  talking  me  over  with — 
with  others,"  retorted  Mildred,  still  angry,  but  with  tremulous 
lips  that  showed  how  she  was  moved  by  this  appeal.  "  I  haven't 
forgotten  your  interference  once  before." 

"  Oh,  how  I  detest  you  when  you  talk  like  that !" 
"  And  if  you  have  come  again  as  a  messenger — " 
"  A  messenger  !"  cried  Daisy,  hotly.    "  Well,  if  I  did,  it  would 
be  from  some  one  whom  you  don't  deserve — no,  you  don't,  you 
don't !     But  I'll  never,  never  say  another  word.     You  can  make 
just  as  big  a  fool  of  yourself  as  you  choose,  for  all  me." 

"  Thank  you,  dear !"  said  Mildred,  sneeringly.  "  And  if  any 
one  is  in  need  of  consolation,  why  don't  you  do  the  consoling  ?" 
"  Oh  !"  cried  Daisy,  with  something  that  was  neither  a  laugh 
nor  a  sob,  but  a  strange  mingling  of  both.  She  gave  her  long 
fur  boa  a  rapid  twist  and  picked  up  her  muff.  "  I  never  thought 
that  you  could  say  such  a  mean  thing  as  that,"  she  said.  She 
hurried  to  the  door,  but  at  the  threshold  she  turned  and  flung 
back  a  final  shot.  "  You  deserve  to  live  and  die  an  old  maid, 
and  I  hope  you  will !" 

277 


CHAPTER   XXVII 
THE   DIPLOMACY  OF   HERR  EMIL 

"  PAH  !  You  make  me  madt.  You  arc  a  tarn  fool — dat's 
vat  you  are  !"  Herr  Emil  was  striding  up  and  down  the  room 
impatiently,  his  brows  knotted,  his  face  flushed  with  anger. 
"  Ees  all  I  haf  done  to  go  for  notings  —  notings  ?  Ach,  der 
Dummkopf!  der  Narr!"  Suddenly  he  halted  and  stamped  his 
foot.  "  Vy  not  you  spik  ?  Vy  not  you  say  sometings  ?"  he  cried. 

"What  should  I  say?"  asked  Baron  Smolzow,  in  a  sullen  tone. 
"  I  am  not  accountable  to  you  for  my  actions." 

"  I  make  you  der  Herr  Baron — you  forget  dat." 

"  Well,  then,  unmake  me.  I  don't  care ;  I  am  sick  and  tired 
of  the  whole  business.  Nothing  goes  right — every  one  is  against 
me.  There's  that  fellow  Allen ;  he'll  find  out  the  truth  some 
day,  and  I  might  as  well  give  in  now." 

"  Gif  in  !     And  what  will  become  of  me  ?" 

"  I  don't  care  what  becomes  of  you ;  I  wish  I  had  never  seen 
you  !"  cried  Baretta.  "  You  can  go  to  the  devil,  if  you  like  !" 
he  added,  angrily. 

His  father  laughed ;  but  it  was  not  a  pleasant  laugh  to  hear. 
"  Oh  !"  he  said.  "  And  I  tell  you  one  tings — ven  I  go  I  take 
you  mit  me."  He  laughed  again ;  then  he  put  on  his  hat  and 
left  the  room. 

It  was  true  that  he  did  not  care,  that  he  was  sick  and  tired  of 
everything,  Baretta  said  to  himself  when  he  was  alone ;  and  he 
wished  most  heartily  that  his  father  might  go  away  and  never 
come  back  to  trouble  bim.  It  was  the  day  after  Maud's  unex- 
pected visit  to  his  rooms,  and  he  had  told  his  father  bluntly  that 
he  intended  to  marry  the  girl.  He  thought  that  he  had  at  last 

278 


quite  made  up  his  mind  to  this  sacrifice.  After  all,  Maud  loved 
him  as  he  would  never  be  loved  by  any  one  else,  and  his  painful 
struggles  for  social  eminence  had  left  him  unsatisfied  and  lonely. 
For  a  time,  indeed,  he  had  been  supremely  content  with  himself 
and  his  prospects.  It  was  so  much  to  be  Baron  Smolzow,  and 
to  go  to  houses  like  Mrs.  Cadwallader's,  and  to  be  taken  up  by 
Mrs.  Gregorson !  The  contrast  to  life  in  Arragon  Street  was 
wellnigh  bewildering.  Naturally  enough,  he  had  regarded  it 
as  the  height  of  folly  longer  to  think  of  Maud,  in  spite  of  that 
queer  fondness  for  her,  of  which  he  was  conscious  whenever  the 
memories  of  the  old  days  came  back  to  him.  But  to  sit  alone 
in  luxuriously  furnished  rooms  was  not  so  very  much  of  a  pleas- 
ure ;  and  to  have  his  father's  company — that  was  worse  than  all. 
He  had  nothing  else  to  look  forward  to — no,  nothing.  Somehow 
he  could  not  win  friends.  He  suspected  every  one  of  distrust- 
ing him,  of  plotting  against  him.  More  than  that,  he  was  re- 
minded in  a  hundred  ways  of  the  differences  between  him  and 
these  new  acquaintances — differences  which  being  a  baron  did 
not  overcome  in  the  least.  Society  had  an  atmosphere  of  its 
own,  and  mere  resolution  did  not  seem  to  go  far  in  making  one 
a  gentleman.  Thus  he  experienced  the  unwelcome  sensation  of 
receiving  numberless  slights  even  while  he  was  being  flattered 
and  lionized.  Most  of  them  were  not  meant  for  slights,  but 
they  cut  none  the  less  deeply  for  all  that.  The  self-esteem  of 
this  young  man,  as  the  reader  has  already  perceived,  was  very 
great ;  and  to  injure  that  was  to  strike  him  in  a  vital  part. 
Often  he  came  back  to  his  rooms  with  a  bitter  sense  of  failure, 
of  humiliation,  and  vowed  that  he  would  abandon  forever  the 
effort  to  hold  his  own  with  those  who  continued  to  look  down 
on  him  despite  his  title.  But  of  course  it  was  a  resolution 
which  he  never  carried  into  effect.  "  Colours  seen  by  candle- 
light will  not  look  the  same  by  day,"  Mrs.  Browning  says  some- 
where. Besides,  how  could  he  give  up  his  hopes  in  one  direc- 
tion— his  ambition  to  marry  Miss  Lawrence  ?  He  was  not  sure 
that  he  was  really  so  fond  of  her  as  he  had  been  of  Maud,  al- 
though once  he  had  thought  otherwise,  and  Maud  had  been  to 
him,  as  she  herself  had  felt,  only  a  "  second  best."  Miss  Law- 
rence was  too  proud  and  cold,  and  he  knew  that  even  if  he  suc- 

279 


ceeded  in  marrying  her  he  would  not  be  happy ;  but  for  a  man 
who  wants  to  get  on  there  are  things  more  important  than  hap- 
piness. If  he  had  not  seen  Maud  again,  he  would  never  have 
abandoned  his  hopes  in  that  direction,  faint  as  he  was  sometimes 
forced  to  admit  they  were.  Now  he  hardly  regretted  his  pro- 
spective withdrawal  from  the  race.  What  was  the  use,  he  asked 
himself,  so  long  as  his  father  was  by  to  keep  him  in  perpetual 
torment  ?  It  was  better,  much  better,  to  end  everything  by  a 
single  stroke. 

Herr  Emil  came  back  presently,  having  apparently  got  rid  of 
his  anger  by  exercise  in  the  open  air.  "  I  spik  too  harshly,  mon 
fils"  he  said,  in  his  most  benignant  manner.  "I  do  not  mean 
you  are  a  tam  fool." 

"  Well,  there's  no  use  talking,"  replied  Baretta.  "  I  have 
made  up  my  mind." 

u  So  ?     And  Mees  Lawrence — vat  she  say  ?" 

"  It  won't  make  any  difference  to  her !"  exclaimed  the  young 
man,  rather  bitterly.     "  Look  here,"  he  added,  "  you  might  as  , 
well  understand  first  as  last  that  I  never  had  any  chance.     I  dare 
say  she's  still  in  love  with  that  fellow  Yates." 

"  Yates  ?  Who  is  Yates  ?"  asked  Herr  Emil.  "  I  do  not  know 
him." 

"  Anyway,"  said  Baretta,  not  answering  this  question,  "  what 
difference  does  it  make  ?  I  don't  want  to  stay  here  in  Boston. 
If  I  get  those  estates  we  can  go  over  there." 

"  Pooh,  pooh !"  cried  Herr  Emil,  beginning  to  pace  up  and 
down  the  room  again.  "  You  do  not  spik  sense.  Do  you  tink 
dey  efer  gif  you  der  money  ?" 

"  Then  what  good  are  the  papers  you  showed  me  ?  Do  you 
mean  to  say  there  is  no  truth  at  all  in  your  story — that  you 
never  even  knew  Paul  Baretta  ?" 

"  Knew  him  ?  Oh  yes,  I  knew  him.  Am  not  I  Paul  Baretta 
— who  died  and  was  buried  so  long  ago  ?" 

"  I  wish  you  would  be  honest  with  me — that  you  would  tell 
me  all,"  said  Baretta,  impatiently. 

"Eh,  bien,  Francois !  you  haf  no  reason  in  what  you  say. 
Leesten,  and  do  not  be  foolish.  I  know  Paul  Baretta ;  oh  yes, 
I  know  him  goot.  He  comes  to  America;  he  fights  in  der  great 

280 


war ;  he  is  wounded  im  Schlacht  bei  Antietam.  Oh  yes — and 
he  marries  die  schone  Amerikanerin.  He  has  a  son,  who  is  now 
der  Herr  Baron  Smolzow,  nicht  wahr  ?  Vat  more  do  you  veesh  ?" 
"  But  you — if  I  am  the  son  of  Paul  Baretta,  who  are  you?" 
"  Moi  ?  You  are  stupide,  Frangois.  You  are  my  son." 
"Oh,  I  am  out  of  all  patience  with  you  !"  cried  Baretta.  "  I 
know  very  well  that  you  have  played  some  devil's  game,  and 
that  if  I  am  your  son  I  am  no  more  Baron  Smolzow  than  you  are. 
Well,  I  refuse  to  carry  out  my  part  of  it ;  I  will  have  no  more 
to  do  with  you.  I  don't  care  how  soon  you  tell  them  that  it  is 
all  a  fraud — a  lie.  I  don't  know  how  you  got  Paul  Baretta's 
papers,  but  1  know  you  are  not  Paul  Baretta.  Perhaps  you 
are  not  my  father ;  but  even  if  I  am  the  rightful  heir  I  will  give 
up  my  claim.  Nothing  can  be  gained  by  putting  it  forward  ; 
you  say  yourself  that  I  need  not  hope  to  have  it  recognized. 
Well,  then,  I  give  it  up.  Do  you  hear  ?"  he  cried,  angrily  ;  "  I 
give  it  up.  You  can  do  what  you  like,  and  go  where  you  please; 
I'll  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  you.  I  tell  you  that  I'm  sick 
and  tired  of  the  whole  thing.  The  truth  will  have  to  come  out 
some  time.  There's  Yatcs — go  and  tell  your  story  to  him.  He'll 
be  pleased  enough — he'll  pay  you  well  for  it,  I'll  be  bound  !  I 
guess  you  can  get  more  money  out  of  him  than  out  of  me. 
Now  I'm  going  away.  I  hope  I  shall  never  see  you  again. 
You'd  better  go  before  I  come  back.  Perhaps  I  sha'n't  come 
back  at  all.  Good  God !"  cried  Baretta,  with  a  sudden  access 
of  fury,  "  what  do  you  stand  grinning  at  me  like  that  for?  Do 
you  think  I'm  not  in  earnest?  You'll  see  whether  I  am  or  not !" 
But  Herr  Emil  kept  on  smiling  even  after  the  young  man  had 
rushed  out,  slamming  the  door  behind  him.  "  Oh,  ho !  I  see 
how  it  ees  !"  he  muttered.  "  It  ees  that  tarn  Maudt."  Herr 
Emil's  smile  was  not  at  this  moment  an  agreeable  one.  "  Ja, 
ja  f"  he  said,  presently  ;  "  it  ees  that  tarn  Maudt."  Then  he, 
too,  went  out,  but  he  did  not  slam  the  door.  "Ja,  jaf"  he  said 
again  when  he  was  in  the  street.  Somehow  or  other  this  un- 

O 

grateful  young  man's  folly  must  be  checked  before  it  had  gone 
too  far  and  wrought  irreparable  mischief.  Herr  Emil  was  sure 
that  he  had  thought  of  a  way  to  check  it,  and  he  nodded  with 
satisfaction  several  times  as  he  turned  from  the  avenue  into  a 

281 


side  street,  from  which  access  could  be  gained  to  a  foot-bridge 
crossing  the  line  of  the  Old  Colony  Railway,  and  providing  a 
short  cut  into  Columbus  Avenue.  He  professed  to  be  a  stranger 
in  the  city,  but  he  knew  the  way  to  Roxbury  very  well.  The 
address  which  he  had  in  his  pocket  was  in  a  neighbourhood  per- 
fectly familiar  to  him.  He  had  copied  it  that  morning  from  a 
card  which  he  liad  found  lying  upon  the  Baron's  dressing-case. 
There  was  no  name  upon  the  card,  only  a  street  and  number  in 
the  Baron's  handwriting.  He  was  pretty  sure  whose  address  it 
was. 

"  Ees  Mees  Maudt  zu  Hause  .2"  he  asked  in  his  most  insinuat- 
ing manner  of  the  untidy  woman  who  came  to  the  door. 

"  Miss  Maud  what  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Jackson.  "  She  told  me  her 
name  was  Vivian,"  added  the  good  woman,  suspiciously.  "  But 
I  thought  it  wasn't  her  name." 

"  Oh,  yes — it  ees  her  name,"  said  Herr  Emil,  politely.  "  Mecs 
Veevian.  I  veesh  to  see  her." 

"  Well,  she  ain't  in.  She  don't  git  home  till  seven  o'clock  or 
after." 

"  So  ?     Ich  komme  bald  zuruck — I  vill  come  again." 

"  What  do  you  want  of  her,  anyway  ?"  Mrs.  Jackson  asked. 
"  You're  a  furriner,  ain't  you  ?" 

"  Ja,  ja,  madame  ;  an  old  frendt.  She  vill  be  glat  to  see  me. 
Ohja,  I  vill  come  again."  Hcrr  Emil  raised  his  hat  politely  and 
turned  to  go  down  the  steps. 

"  Well !"  cried  Mrs.  Jackson,  banging  the  door.  She  felt 
that  something  must  be  wrong.  "  What  did  he  call  her?"  she 
said  to  herself.  "  I  knew  she  didn't  give  her  real  name.  If 
there's  anything  wrong,  out  she  goes  to-morrow."  And  with 
this  charitable  resolve  she  went  back  to  the  kitchen,  where  she 
had  left  a  pan  of  rolls  just  ready  to  put  into  the  oven. 

"  Some  foreigner  ?"  repeated  Maud,  vaguely,  when  Mrs.  Jack- 
son told  her  of  her  caller. 

"  He  said  he  was  an  old  friend,  but  I  guess  that  wa'n't  so. 
Say,  what  is  it  all  about  ?"  Mrs.  Jackson  asked.  "  I  can't  have 
no  queer  goings-on  here." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  queer  goings-on  ?"  exclaimed  Maud, 
indignantly.  "  Why  are  you  always  talking  as  if  you  suspected 

282 


me  ?  If  that's  the  way  you  feel,  I  guess  I'd  better  go,  any 
way.  My  week  will  be  up  to-morrow." 

"  You  needn't  git  mad.  I  ain't  a  suspicious  person.  But  I 
don't  hold  by  furriners,  and  when  that  gray-bearded  old  man 
came  round  askin'  for  you  by  some  f urrin  name — " 

"  Oh,  he  had  a  gray  beard  ?  Very  well,  Mrs.  Jackson,  I  know 
who  it  is,"  said  Maud,  with  dignity.  "  If  he  comes  again  I  will 
see  him.  And  of  course  I  will  go  to-morrow." 

Mrs.  Jackson  stared  after  her  as  she  swept  proudly  up- 
stairs. "  Well,  what  are  you  gittin'  mad  about  ?"  called  out  the 
astonished  woman.  "  I  hain't  told  ye  to  go  yet,  have  I  ?  My  !" 
she  added,  as  she  returned  once  more  to  her  pots  and  pans, 
"  that  gal  needs  takin'  down  a  peg.  She's  too  much  of  a  high- 
flyer for  me !" 

But  Maud  might  have  broken  down  and  cried  had  any  one 
been  by  to  sympathize  with  her.  The  feeling  of  exultation  in 
the  promise  of  a  new  life — the  hope  that  her  lover  really  meant 
they  should  not  be  separated  again — had  naturally  enough  been 
followed  by  a  reaction.  In  the  cold,  dull  light  of  morning  that 
happy  parting  of  the  evening  before  already  seemed  to  be  some- 
thing remote  and  unreal.  It  must  be  that  her  hopes  were  de- 
lusive. When  he  came  to  see  how  much  he  would  have  to  sac- 
rifice he  would  again  be  convinced  that  he  must  give  her  up. 
But  she  could  not  submit  quietly  to  hef  fate  this  time ;  after  a 
renewed  glimpse  of  happiness  it  would  be  impossible.  And  if 
in  the  end  she  should  have  to  submit — oh,  she  could  not  think 
of  that !  she  would  not  believe  it !  She  felt  that  she  had  already 
endured  as  much  as  it  was  in  human  nature  to  endure.  Poor 
Maud !  who  even  yet  had  not  tested  her  full  capacity  for  suffer- 
ing. Few  of  us  do  that,  however  bitter  seems  the  burden  that 
is  laid  upon  us. 

And  now  that  man  who  had  been  with  Frank  yesterday  after- 
noon— that  man  whom  she  instinctively  hated — had  been  try- 
ing to  find  her.  What  did  he  want?  Why  should  he  come 
except  as  a  bearer  of  evil  tidings  ?  She  had  told  Airs.  Jackson 
she  would  see  him  if  he  came  again,  because  she  was  angry 
with  her  landlady  for  daring  to  suspect  her  of  anything  wrong ; 
but  she  had  a  miserable  dread  of  him  and  his  errand.  She  re- 

283 


membered  that  he  had  a  cruel  face  in  spite  of  his  smile.  Why 
should  he  come  to  see  her?  What  had  he  to  do  with  her — or 
with  Frank  ?  Who  was  he.  ?  She  kept  on  asking  herself  these 
questions  although  she  knew  there  was  no  way  of  answering 
them.  It  could  not  be  that  Frank  himself  had  sent  him — Frank 
who  had  left  her  only  last  evening  with  a  kiss  and  a  whispered 
fond  word.  Oh,  he  could  not  mean  to  give  her  up  like  that — to 
send  this  stranger  to  tell  her  that  her  dream  was  so  soon  at  an 
end  !  She  ought  not  even  for  a  moment  to  suspect  such  a  thing. 
But  it  is  one  thing,  alas  !  to  love  a  person,  and  another  to  trust 
him.  She  remembered  that  she  had  never  been  quite  sure  of 
Frank.  The  tears  were  running  down  Maud's  face  now  as 
all  these  wretched  doubts  and  fears  assailed  her.  She  started 
violently  and  wiped  them  away  when  she  heard  a  gentle  tap  at 
the  door. 

"  Pardon,"  said  Herr  Emil's  voice.  "  I  come  up  because  le 
concierge  said  you  expect  me.  II  est  tres  curieux,  le  concierge, 
and  I  veesh  to  spik  rait  you  alone."  Herr  Emil  coughed  as  he 
closed  the  door  softly  behind  him.  "  Pardon — monsieur  down- 
stairs smokes  fery  badt  tabac." 

"  What  do  you  want  of  me  ?"  cried  Maud,  rising  and  facing 
him  with  an  air  of  defiance.  She  would  not  let  him  see  that 
she  was  afraid,  even  although  she  felt  strangely  weak  and  was 
trembling  like  a  leaf. 

"  Je  suis  tout  seul — you  need  not  fear.  I  am  kvite  alone.  But 
perhaps  you,  too,  spik  only  the  English  ?  So  ?  Ah  !"  Herr 
Emil  signed  gently,  and  smiled  at  her  encouragingly.  "  It  ees 
no  mataire.  But  do  you  not  ask  me  to  take  a  seat  ?  J2h,  bien  ! 
do  you  not  veesh  to  see  me  ?  C'est  a  regretter  /" 

"  I  guess  you  can  sit  down  if  you  like,"  said  Maud.  "  Did — 
did  Frank  know  you  were  coming  ?  Did  he  send  you  ?" 

"  Frank  ?  Oh,  ah  ! — der  Herr  Baron  Smolzow.  Yes,  he  send 
me.  It  gifs  him  sorrow  that  he  cannot  come  himself." 

"  Cannot  come  ?  Then  he  must  be  ill.  Oh,  tell  me  that  it 
isn't  that !"  cried  Maud,  clasping  her  hands  imploringly. 

"  Mein  schones  Fraulein,  you  excite  yourself  too  much.  He 
is  veil." 

The  words  somehow  struck  a  chill  to  the  girl's  heart.  She 

284 


sank  into  a  chair,  her  face  pale,  her  eyes  fixed  vaguely  upon  the 
man  standing  before  her.  It  was  true,  then,  that  all  was  indeed 
over  between  them,  that  his  brave  words  about  their  never  being 
separated  again  had  meant  nothing.  Oh,  why,  why  had  he  told 
her  that,  only  to  shatter  her  hopes  more  remorselessly  than  ever  ? 
"  He  is  well  ?"  repeated  Maud,  in  the  mechanical  tone  of  one  who 
is  learning  a  lesson.  "  What  is  it  you  have  to  say  to  me  that 
he  couldn't  say  himself  ?" 

"  I  greef  for  you,  Fraulein,"  said  Herr  Emil,  softly,  flourish- 
ing a  handkerchief,  previous  to  wiping  away  an  imaginary  tear. 
"  It  ees  my  veakness — I  am  too  sympathetique.  I  am  sorry  that 
you  take  dese  tings  so  mooch  to  heart.  The  Herr  Baron  is  dis- 
tressed, too.  He  ees  sorry  that  you  understand  him  not.  The 
Herr  Baron  has  too  mooch — vat  you  say — eempulse.  He  luf 
you — oh,  jay  he  luf  you.  But " — here  the  Baron's  confidential 
adviser  waved  his  hand  impressively — "there  are  reasons.  Sie 
verstehen?  ' Sist  unmoglich — it  ees  impossible." 

"  What  is  impossible?  What  do  you  mean?  How  dare  you 
come  and  talk  to  me  like  this  ?"  Maud  rose  from  the  chair ; 
the  colour  rushed  back  to  her  face ;  her  eyes  dilated  and  flashed 
with  sudden  anger.  "  I  won't  listen  to  you ;  I  don't  believe  a 
word  you  say.  He  never  sent  you  here.  Who  are  you,  any- 
way i" 

"Moi?"  Herr  Emil  smiled  again.  He  was  perfectly  calm, 
and  an  observer  would  have  said  that  he  was  rather  enjoying 
the  scene,  in  spite  of  his  professions  of  distress.  "  Moi  ?"  he  re- 
peated. "I  am  his  fader." 

"  You  ?     That's  a  lie.     His  father  is  dead." 

"  Dedt — oh,  ja  ;  I  am  dedt.  It  ees  our  little  zecret.  I  am 
dedt ;  I  am  buried.  Der  funeral  sharge  was  heafy.  But  ven  I 
lif  again  he  is  no  more  der  Herr  Baron.  He  is  mint — he  lose  his 
money — everytings.  And  I  am  not  dedt  ven  you  not  gif  him 
up.  Oh,  ja — dey  did  not  bury  me  deep  enough.  And  you  do 
not  give  him  up.  Quel  malheur!" 

"  It's  a  lie  —  it's  all  a  -lie  !"  sobbed  Maud.  "  I  don't  know 
what  you  mean.  I  won't  believe  a  thing  unless  he  tells 
me.  He  loves  me  —  he  don't  love  her,  that  other  girl  who 
tried  to  take  him  away  from  me.  How  can  you  be  his  father  ? 

28o 


I  won't  believe  it  1  Oh,  why  don't  he  come  to  tell  me  it's  all 
a  lie  ?" 

"  My  dear  Fraulein,  you  excite  yourself.  It  ces  true.  I  am 
sorry,  but  I  cannot  help  it.  I  haf  a  duty  to  perform ;  I  haf  al- 
ways been  a  slafe  to  duty.  You  vill  not  belcef  me  ?  So  ?  I  go 
to  him,  and  I  say, '  It  ees  all  ofer.  You  are  ruint.  She  vill 
not  gif  you  up.'  Ja,ja — it  ees  a  great  pity." 

"  You  his  father  !  I  will  not  listen  to  you  any  longer ;  I  know 
he  didn't  send  you  to  tell  me  that.  Why  don't  you  go  away  ?" 
cried  Maud,  stamping  her  foot.  "  I'll  have  you  put  out  of  the 
house  if  you  don't." 

"So?"  Herr  Emil  said,  with  a  sneer.  "Oh,  I  vill  go — yes,  I 
vill  go.  But  you  vill  veesh  I  had  not  gone.  Adieu,  Fraulein." 
He  took  up  his  hat  and  was  about  to  open  the  door,  but  paused 
with  his  hand  on  the  knob.  " Man  kommt"  he  muttered. 
Then  he  quickly  drew  the  door  back,  shutting  himself  behind  it 
as  it  swung  inward  towards  the  wall. 

"  Oh,  Frank !  Frank  !"  It  was  indeed  he  who  appeared  at  the 
threshold,  and  Maud  ran  forward  to  meet  him,  throwing  herself 
into  his  arms  and  beginning  to  cry  bitterly.  "  Oh,  Frank  !  have 
you  come  back  to  me  ?  It  is  not  true  that  you  want  to  leave  me 
again.  I  told  him  so — I  told  him  so !" 

"  Told  who  so  ?"  asked  Baretta,  bewildered.  "  Why  are  you 
crying  ?  and  what  has  happened  ?  Who  said  I  wanted  to  leave 
you  ?" 

But  Maud  could  not  answer  just  then.  She  hid  her  face  on 
his  shoulder  and  let  the  tears  flow  freely.  She  had  known  it 
was  all  a  lie — that  he  would  come  back  to  her — that  he  still 
loved  her  as  much  as  ever.  Surely  it  was  for  very  joy  that  she 
cried. 

"  What  is  it  ?  what  has  happened  ?"  repeated  Baretta. 

"  Oh,  send  him  away — send  him  away  !" 

"  Send  who  away  1  There  is  no  one  here."  He  thought  that 
Maud  must  be  out  of  her  head — that  perhaps  she  was  ill,  and 
had  let  some  feverish  fancy  take  possession  of  her.  As  he  held 
her  closer  to  him,  and  gently  stroked  her  hair,  he  realized  how 
unkind  he  had  been  to  her,  how  much  she  must  have  suffered 
during  all  these  months.  Poor  Maud !  He  would  make  it  up 

286 


to  her  at  any  cost  to  himself.  It  gave  him  a  glow  of  virtuous 
satisfaction  to  think  of  so  noble  a  piece  of  self-sacrifice.  "I 
guess  you've  been  dreaming,"  Baretta  said.  "  The  room  is 
empty — no  one  is  here  but  us." 

Maud  lifted  her  face  and  pointed  to  the  door.  "  He's  behind 
there,"  she  said. 

"  Behind  there  ?"  Baretta  advanced  a  step  or  two,  but  at  that 
moment  heavy  footsteps  were  heard  ascending  the  stairs,  and 
both  listened  involuntarily.  "  You  seem  to  be  holding  a  sort  of 
reception,"  he  said,  grimly.  Then  he  started  back  with  a  look 
of  alarm,  for  it  was  Dolan  who  came  rushing  into  the  room. 

"  Ye  dom  villain !"  Dolau  cried,  advancing  with  uplifted  fist. 
"  I'll  tache  ye  to  play  yer  durrty  thricks  with  a  dacent  gyurl !" 

But  Maud  with  a  piercing  shriek  threw  herself  between  them. 
"  He'll  kill  you,  Frank  !  he'll  kill  you  !"  she  screamed. 

"  Shtand  asoide — it's  him  I'm  reckonin'  wid."  He  flung  her 
off  impatiently  and  again  advanced  on  Baretta,  who  had  been 
staring  at  him,  apparently  incapable  either  of  speech  or  action. 
"  To  trate  a  dacent  gyurl  loike  that !"  he  cried,  with  a  curse. 
"  But  I'll  fix  yer— I'm  her  father,  and  I'll  fix  yer  !" 

"  At  this  point  Herr  Emil  walked  out  from  behind  the  door. 
Hh,  bien  f  her  fader  ?"  he  said,  calmly.  "  So  ?  Veil,  I  am  his  !" 

287 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
BARETTA  REFUSES  TO  YIELD 

"  THE  other  f urriner  !"  cried  Dolan,  turning  to  confront  this 
unexpected  intruder.  He  stared  stupidly  at  Herr  Emil,  not  in 
the  least  understanding  even  yet  who  he  was  or  what  he  was  do- 
ing here.  "  Phwat  the  divvle  !"  he  muttered,  helplessly. 

"  Oh  yes — I  am  his  fader,"  said  Herr  Emil,  blandly.  "  And 
ven  you  vill  leesten  to  me  it  ees  very  goot  frendts  ve  vill  be." 

But  here  Baretta,  whose  astonishment  at  the  interruption  had 
been  almost  as  great  as  Dolan's,  stepped  forward,  his  face  white 
with  rage.  "  You  villain  !  you  traitor !  what  are  you  doing  here  ? 
How  dare  you  interfere  in  my  affairs  in  this  way  ?  It's  a  lie — 
you're  not  my  father ;  I  defy  you  to  prove  it !" 

Herr  Emil  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Ve  vill  keep  dis  leetle 
mataire  to  ourselves,"  he  said,  as  he  closed  the  door,  almost  in 
the  face  of  Mrs.  Jackson  and  her  worthy  husband,  who  had  been 
attracted  to  the  scene  by  the  sound  of  voices  loud  in  dispute. 
"  M.  le  Concierge  smokes  tarn  badt  tabac,"  he  added,  coughing. 

"  What  has  he  been  saying  to  you,  Maud  ?  Was  it  him  that 
made  you  cry  ?"  demanded  Baretta,  forgetting  his  grammar  in 
his  excitement.  "  As  for  you,"  he  said,  turning  to  Dolan,  "  you're 
all  wrong.  I  haven't  harmed  your  daughter ;  she'll  tell  you  that 
I  haven't.  I  never  saw  her  after  she  left  your  house  until  yes- 
terday— did  I,  Maud  ?  I  tell  you  I  can  prove  it,  if  you  don't  be- 
lieve me.  But  what's  that  to  you,  anyway,  you  damned  low- 
down  brute ! — you  that  struck  her  and  drove  her  out  into  the 
street?  By  Heaven  !  I  have  my  own  account  to  settle  with  you 
— yes,  and  with  him,  and  with  them  all !"  Baretta  said,  his  dark 
eyes  blazing  with  passion. 

288 


"  Oh,  Frank  !  Frank !"  exclaimed  Maud,  who  was  crying  again, 
and  looking  in  a  bewildered  way  from  one  man  to  another.  What 
did  it  all  mean  ?  How  had  her  father  found  her  out  I  and  why 
did  this  stranger,  who  had  said  he  was  Frank's  father,  come  to 
make  things  worse  ? 

Meanwhile,  Dolan,  although  he  was  still  far  from  understand- 
ing the  situation,  remembered  that  his  first  duty  was  to  have  his 
revenge  upon  the  fellow  who  had  taken  his  girl  away.  Of  course 
he  did  not  believe  Baretta's  denial.  Hadn't  he  himself  seen 
Maud  coming  out  of  his  house  with  him?  and  who  could  tell 
how  long  it  had  been  going  on  ?  "  I'll  tache  ye  to  play  yer  thricks 
on  a  dacent  gyurl !"  he  cried,  once  more  rushing  at  the  young 
man.  His  heavy  fist  sent  Baretta  staggering  backward,  but  be- 
fore he  could  repeat  the  attack,  before  Maud,  who  was  too  much 
frightened  even  to  scream,  could  interpose,  his  eye  fell  upon  the 
gleaming  barrel  of  a  revolver. 

"  It  ees  a  bretty  tings,"  said  Herr  Emil,  who  had  stepped  for- 
ward quickly,  and  who  now  stood  between  Dolan  and  the  object 
of  his  vengeance.  "  It  was  gifen  to  me  by  der  Herr  Baron  Paul 
— ach,  ja !  it  was  his  own.  I  haf  a  badt  way  of  carrying  it 
loadted.  I  should  not  veesh  it  to  go  off  by  mistakes.  Das 
wurde  schrecMich  sein,  nicht  wahr?"  Herr  Emil  lowered  his 
weapon  as  he  spoke  and  gazed  at  it  affectionately. 

"  Oh,  put  that  thing  away — my  God  !  put  it  away !"  cried 
Maud,  with  a  woman's  instinctive  dread  of  fire-arms. 

But  Dolan  and  Baretta  both  stared  helplessly  at  Herr  Emil. 
They  had  not  reckoned  upon  a  diversion  of  this  sort,  and  neither 
knew  exactly  what  to  do  in  the  face  of  it. 

"  You  haf  a  leetle  kvarrel,"  Herr  Emil  said,  taking  advantage 
of  their  silence  ;  "  oh,ja,ja — dere  vill  be  time  for  dat — but  not 
before  a  ladty.  Fraulein,  I  respect  your  veeshes."  He  bowed 
and  put  the  revolver  back  in  his  pocket.  "  I  tink  ven  you  hear 
vat  I  say  we  can  settle  our  leetle  mataire.  Mees  Maudt,  wollen 
Sie  gefalligst  ein  Platz  nehmen  ? — vill  you  sit  down  ?  No  ?  Pre- 
sent me  to  your  fader — I  know  not  his  name." 

"  You  mind  your  own  business !"  interrupted  Baretta,  savagely. 
He  was  so  exasperated  by  all  that  had  happened  that  he  was 
oblivious  to  all  the  dangers  that  might  follow  taking  matters 

T  289 


into  his  own  hands.  He  was  in  the  midst  of  his  enemies — his 
father  was  the  worst  enemy  of  all — and  he  must  fight  for  him- 
self. What  did  he  care  for  threats?  What  if  the  truth  were 
known  to  all  the  world  ?  Maud  loved  him  and  believed  in  him  ; 
Maud  was  the  only  friend  he  had  on  earth.  Let  the  rest  con- 
spire against  him  if  they  chose ;  he  would  stand  by  Maud. 

"Oh,  I  mind  my  own  beesness !"  said  Herr  Emil,  mockingly. 
"  So?  It  vill  be  your  beesness,  you  tarn  ungrateful  shcoundrel !" 

"  Do  you  think  I  care  for  your  threats  ?  Do  your  worst ! 
Don't  cry,  Maud — I'll  never  give  you  up,  let  them  say  what  they 
please.  As  for  you,  you  brute !"  cried  Baretta,  turning  to  Do- 
Ian,  "  you  needn't  think  that  I'll  forget  to  pay  you  for  what  you 
did  that  night,  or  just  now — or  to  her,  either!"  he  added,  re- 
membering that  it  was  Maud  who  had  suffered  most  from  Do- 
lan's  outbreaks  of  wrath.  "  But  if  you  think  that  either  of  us 
is  responsible  to  you,  you're  mistaken,  that's  all.  What  affair 
is  it  of  yours  ?  You  drove  her  out  of  your  house  with  your 
cruelty,  and  she's  taken  care  of  herself  ever  since.  And  I — I — " 
here  he  hesitated  a  moment,  then  burst  forth,  "  I'm  going  to 
marry  her  in  spite  of  you  both — and  you  can  do  your  worst  if 
you  like.  I  don't  care  what  comes  of  it.  I'm  going  to  marry 
her.  I  guess  I  won't  go  back  on  that  now."  He  laughed  irri- 
tably, then  added:  "  I  wish  you'd  both  get  out  of  this  and  leave 
us  to  ourselves.  You've  no  right  here,  either  of  you.  Do  you 
understand?"  cried  he,  stamping  his  foot.  "Why  don't  you  go?" 

"The  imperence  of  the  durrty  baste!"  muttered  Dolan,  as- 
tounded at  the  turn  things  were  taking.  But  he  did  not  resume 
active  hostilities.  He  prided  himself  on  being  a  handy  man  with 
his  fists,  and  was  confident  that  he  could  have  knocked  out  any 
two  foreigners  with  tho  utmost  ease.  A  revolver,  however,  was 
a  weapon  with  which  he  had  only  a  limited  acquaintance,  and  he 
felt  that  Herr  Emil's  possession  of  one  was  a  factor  in  the  situ- 
ation not  to  be  disregarded. 

"You  make  a  tarn  fool  of  yourself,"  said  Herr  Emil,  taking 
up  the  conversation  at  this  point.  "  I  forgeef  vat  you  say  to 
me  if  you  listen  and  be  reasonable  now.  It  ees  because  I  am 
so  veek  zat  I  forgeef,"  he  explained,  with  a  glance  at  Maud,  who 
was  still  standing  with  a  bewildered  gaze  that  wandered  from 

290 


one  man  to  another  as  each  spoke ;  and  then  at  Baretta  and  at 
Dolan — one  defiant,  the  other  merely  sullen.  "  Monsieur  le  pere 
de  Mademoiselle — you  haf  not  present  me — it  can  all  be  settled. 
Der  Ilerr  Baron  has  not  run  away  mit  your  daughter ;  she  came 
to  see  him  yesterday  for  the  first  time — I  svare  it  on  my  honour. 
You  mistake  ;  there  ees  no  harm  whatefer.  The  Herr  Baron 
veeshes  to  marry  her — oh,  goot !  goot !  Er  ist  ein  edler  Mensch, 
aber — I  say  it  ees  impossible.  II  est  fiance — it  ees  another  Friiu- 
lein  he  ees  to  marry  ;  you  vill  see  it  all  in  de  papers.  Oh,  I 
know,  I  know !  But  no  harm  has  been  done.  Mees  Maudt  vill 
see  that  no  harm  has  been  done ;  she  vill  be  gladt  to  know  of 
her  old  friendt's  good-fortune.  She  knows  that  if  he  marry  her 
he  vill  no  longer  be  the  Herr  Baron  at  all,"  said  Herr  Emil,  with 
a  quick  glance  at  the  girl.  "  So  ?  she  knows  dat — she  remem- 
baire  vat  I  tells  her.  Eh,  bien  /  she  remembaire.  But  if  it  ees 
money — oh,  ve  are  not  reech,  but  ve  vill  find  a  vay — " 

"  How  dare  you  stand  there  and  talk  like  that  ?"  broke  in  Ba- 
retta. "  Don't  you  pay  any  attention  to  him,  Maud.  I  shall  do 
as  I  choose,  and  he  can  say  what  he  likes." 

"  Av  coorse,"  began  Dolan,  looking  first  at  Baretta  and  then 
at  Herr  Emil,  "  if  he's  afther  marryin'  her  and  makkin'  a  leddy 
av  her — " 

"  You  are  a  tarn  fool,  too  !"  cried  Herr  Emil,  impatiently. 
"  He  can  make  no  ladty  of  any  one  but  Mees  Lawrence — oh,  I 
shall  tell  all,  and  you  can  stamp  your  foot  all  you  like,"  he  added, 
with  a  glance  of  disdain  at  his  son.  "  It  ees  der  troot — he  vill 
not  deny  it.  He  is  no  baron — he  is  my  son,  and  no  baron  at 
all.  But  I  haf  the  papers — I  tell  lies  for  him  and  make  him 
baron.  I  do  that — moi,  son  pere  ! — and  he  treats  me  as  a  dog. 
But  I  do  it  to  help  him  marry  the  reech  Mees — not  you,  Friiu- 
lein,  charming  as  you  are.  So  you  perceif  ?  Ven  he  marry  you 
I  make  him  vat  he  was  before.  He  lose  everytings.  Vy,  he 
go  to  prison  for  fraudt.  Oh,  jaf  you  perceif,  nicht  wahr  ?" 

"  Prison !"  cried  Maud,  catching  at  the  one  word  in  this 
harangue  which  really  conveyed  some  definite  meaning  to  her 
mind.  "  Prison  !  and  for  me  ?  Oh,  no,  no  !"  said  Maud,  burst- 
ing into  tears,  "  anything  but  that,  Frank — I  will  not  have  you 
do  that.  Leave  me — oh,  leave  me  before  I'm  sorry  I  said  it.  I 

291 


will  not  marry  you.  Do  you  hear  me,  Frank  ?  I  won't  marry 
you  as  long  as  I  live ;  no,  never  !  Why  don't  you  go  when  I 
tell  you  that  ?  Oh  !"  poor  Maud  cried,  "  if  you  would  only  all 
go  and  leave  me  to  myself !" 

"  Sie  haben  recht,  Frdulein — you  spik  sense.  You  see,  Mees 
Maudt  is  no  fool.  Come,  Francois,  we  go  ;  it  ees  no  use  we  are 
here  ?" 

"  Go  ?"  retorted  Baretta.  "  Maud,  let  him  do  his  worst.  I 
shall  stand  by  you.  Yes,  I  tell  you  I  will,"  he  said,  as  his  father 
burst  into  a  mocking  laugh.  "  I  am  sick  of  you  and  your 
schemes ;  I  am  sick  of  trying  to  rise  in  the  world  with  you  at 
hand  to  pull  me  down.  What  good  has  it  all  done  me  ?  what 
good  can  it  do  me  ?  I  give  it  all  up  ;  I'm  going  back  where  I 
belong.  Don't  cry,  Maud — for  Heaven's  sake,  how  easily  you 
women  cry  !  there's  nothing  to  cry  about.  As  for  your  talk 
about  prison — was  there  ever  such  rot  ?  Prison  !  I  guess  you'd 
go  there  before  me.  As  for  you,  Dolan,  you'd  better  clear  out, 
too.  I  haven't  forgotten  what  I  owe  you,  and  I'll  pay  you  out 
yet.  So  will  I  all  of  them,  all — all !  You,  and  you — and  that 
damned  Yates,  and  Allen,  and  her — the  girl  who  laughed  at 
me  and  calfed  me  no  baron  at  all.  They'll  know  the  truth  now, 
but  I'll  be  even  with  them — and  with  you !"  he  cried,  with  an- 
other look  of  vindictive  hatred  at  his  father,  "  with  you  most  of 
any  one  !  Tell  everything,  if  you  like,  but  it  will  be  the  bitter- 
est day's  work  for  yourself  that  you  ever  did.  Maud,  you're 
the  only  friend  I  have  in  the  world,  and  I'll  stand  by  you  !" 

"  So  !"  said  Herr  Emil,  vindictively.  "  You  cast  me  off  ? 
Goot — very  goot !  You  vill  find  out  sometings  before  long. 
And  you,"  he  added,  turning  to  Maud,  "  you  let  him  do  it — you 
veesh  him  to  be  mint  for  you  ?  Goot — very  goot !" 

"  No,  no  !"  Maud  sobbed.  "  Haven't  I  told  him  not  to  think 
of  me  any  more  ?  to  go  away  and  never  come  back  ?  But,  oh, 
Frank!  it  was  cruel  to  make  me  forget  that  you  were  so  far 
above  me — to  make  me  think  that  everything  was  the  same  as 
if  we  had  never  parted." 

"  Phwat  the  divvle  are  yez  all  droivin'  at,  I'd  loike  to  know  ?" 
interrupted  Dolan.  "  I  can't  make  head  or  tail  of  these  dom 
furriners  at  all.  I'd  have  ye  know  that  she's  a  dacent  gyurl, 

292 


and  if  it  ain't  marryin'  he  manes  he'll  have  me  to  dale  with — an' 
in  a  way  he  won't  be  afther  forgettin' — moind  that,"  Dolan  said, 
menacingly.  He  still  thought  that  it  was  his  duty/  to  give 
Baretta  a  good  pummelling,  upon  general  principles,  ^but  recol- 
lections of  the  revolver  restrained  his  ardour.  There/was  never 
any  knowing  what  these  dagoes  would  do.  He  sMll  persisted 
in  regarding  Baretta  as  a  "  dago,"  and  of  course  ih'is  man  who 
called  himself  Baretta's  father  must  be  of  tli^same  breed.  He 
would  not  voluntarily  have  chosen  a  dago  tor  a  son-in-law,  but 
he  felt  that  in  this  case  the  choice  was  forced  upon  him.  He 
did  not  even  attempt  to  understand  Baretta's  explanations. 
Whether  he  had  taken  her  away  from  Arragon  Street  or  not, 
here  he  was  keeping  company  with  her,  and  the  honour  of  the 
Dolans  demanded  that  he  should  marry  her.  That  was  the 
main  point;  all  else  was  confusion. 

•  "  I  will  not  go,  Maud  ;  I'll  stand  by  you  !"  said  Baretta  again. 
"  Let  him,"  he  cried,  pointing  to  his  father — "  let  him  do  his 
worst !  I  defy  him — I  defy  them  all !  I'll  show  them  how  I 
can  revenge  myself.  You're  a  fool,  Dolau.  Your  daughter  is 
of  age — she  can  do  whatever  she  likes.  And  she  is  going  to 
marry  me.  Pah  !  do  you  think  I'm  afraid  of  either  of  you  ?" 

"  Oh  no  ;  you  are  not  afraidt."  Herr  Emil  laughed  scornfully, 
and  went  up  to  Dolan,  and  took  him  by  the  arm.  "  Come,"  he 
said,  "  der  young  beeple  do  not  vant  us ;  de  faders  are  in  de  vay. 
Come."  He  led  Dolan,  who  was  stillUoo  much  confused  to  re- 
sist, to  the  door.  At  the  threshold  he\tu"rned  and  looked  at  his 
son.  "  You  vill  be  sorry  for  dis,  you  tarn  fool,"  he  said. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  the  two  men,  Maud  sank  into  a 
chair  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  "  Go,  go  !"  she 
murmured.  "  I  ain't  worth  it,  Frank.  Oh  !"  she  cried,  looking 
up  for  a  moment,  "  what  will  he  do  to  you  ?" 

"  Maud !  darling  Maud !"  Baretta  knelt  anxiously  by  her 
side,  putting  one  arm  about  her  waist.  "  He  can't  do  anything 
to  me.  Don't  cry  like  that — I  hate  to  see  you  cry.  You  won't 
think  now  that  I  don't  care  for  you,  will  you  ?" 

Indeed,  he  thought  that  he  had  displayed  a  wonderful  amount 
of  courage,  and  that  she  ought  to  be  very  grateful  indeed  to 
him  for  the  sacrifice  which  he  had  made.  He  did  not  yet  re- 

293 


gret  it,  although  perhaps  there  was  already  some  anticipation  in 
his  mind  of  the  time  when  he  would  do  so.  It  was  so  much, 
so  very  much,  that  he  had  given  up  for  her  sake !  He  could 
hardly  appreciate  this  aspect  of  the  case,  to  be  sure,  while  he 
was  with  Maud,  and  conscious  of  the  first  virtuous  glow  of 
thinking  himself  a  hero.  Besides,  it  was  a  great  relief  to  be 
rid  of  his  father,  the  burden  of  whose  society  had  been  of  late 
almost  too  heavy  to  be  borne.  It  was  not  worth  while  even  to 
be  Baron  Smolzow  at  such  a  cost.  Baron  Smolzow  !  the  young 
man  smiled  grimly  as  he  reflected  that  hereafter  he  would  be 
plain  Francis  Baretta  again.  The  glory  which  he  had  risked 
everything  to  gain  had  been  brief  enough.  But,  after  all,  would 
his  father  dare  say  anything  ?  What  could  he  say  without  com- 
promising himself  ?  Pooh  !  those  were  idle  threats.  Let  him 
do  his  worst ! 

"  Frank,  dear,  I  can't  help  crying,"  Maud  was  saying.  "  I 
know  it's  silly  of  me,  but,  oh  !  I  have  been  so  unhappy  thinking 
that  I  should  lose  you,  after  all.  And  I  know  now  that  I  have 
no  right  to  think  of — of  anything  in  the  future.  I  guess  you'd 
better  go,  Frank." 

"  Maud !  I  wish  you'd  make  an  end  of  that  nonsense."  He 
seized  her  hands,  which  she  was  still  holding  before  her  face, 
and,  drawing  them  away,  kissed  her  passionately.  "  I  won't  have 
any  more  talk  about  it,"  he  said  ;  "  I'll  marry  you  to-morrow." 

"  No — oh  no  !  Not  so  soon  as  that !"  Maud  freed  her  hands 
from  his  and  covered  her  face  again.  "  You  ain't  sure  you  care  for 
me,"  she  whispered.  "  I  don't  want  you  to  be  sorry  afterwards." 

"  I'll  marry  you  to-morrow,"  Baretta  repeated,  uncovering  her 
face  and  kissing  her  again.  "  I  tell  you  I  will.  What's  the  use 
of  waiting  ?  They  can't  take  you  away  from  me  then,  and  I'll 
defy  them  all.  Maud,  you  must  say  '  yes.'  " 

He  pleaded  with  an  ardour  that  deceived  himself  as  well  as 
her.  It  was  so  easy  in  this  moment  of  self-sacrifice  to  resolve 
to  do  all  sorts  of  things  that  one's  cooler  judgment  might  shrink 
from  sanctioning.  And  then,  to  be  here  at  her  feet,  holding  her 
close  to  him,  drinking  in  her  fresh  young  charm,  her  palpitating 
beauty,  with  eager  eyes — what  would  not  one  say,  what  not 
promise,  under  such  conditions? 

294 


But  Maud,  with  that  shrinking  delicacy  which  girls  of  every 
class  feel  when  a  decision  like  this  is  forced  upon  them,  would 
promise  nothing.  "  Oh  no  !  not  to-morrow  !"  she  said,  again 
and  again. 

"  There's  nothing  to  wait  for.  Indeed,  there's  every  reason 
why  it  should  be  at  once.  The  day  after  to-morrow,  then." 

"No,  no!" 

"  The  next  day  ? — the  next  ?  See  here,  Maud  !"  cried  he,  rising, 
and  looking  down  at  her  with  a  frown  ;  "  I  didn't  think  you'd 
act  like  a  foolish  child  about  it.  Why  should  we  wait  ?  Some- 
thing might  happen,  and  then —  Oh,  very  well !"  Baretta  said, 
irritably.  "  All  is,  don't  blame  me." 

Maud  rose,  too,  and  went  up  to  him,  and  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  arm.  "  Frank,  dear,"  she  said,  gently,  "  I  will  say  next  Mon- 
day, if  that  will  please  you.  I  guess  you  know  well  enough," 
she  added,  smiling  through  her  tears,  "that  I  ain't  likely  to 
blame  you." 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  and  when  they 
parted  there  was  no  hidden  bitterness  in  her  heart  at  least. 
The  young  man  went  away,  indeed,  wondering  just  how  it  had 
all  happened,  and  why  he  was  so  very  much  in  love  with  this 
girl,  who  was  far  beneath  him.  Even  if  he  were  no  longer  to 
be  Baron  Smolzow  he  would  have  to  think  that.  She  could  not 
sympathize  with  his  intellectual  aspirations ;  she  could  not  ap- 
preciate, except  vaguely,  his  mental  superiority.  And  although 
she  was  pretty  enough,  certainly,  and  very  fond  of  him,  she  was 
no  prettier  than  hosts  of  other  girls.  But  she  was  the  one 
friend  he  had  in  the  world,  and  she  would  believe  in  him  what- 
ever happened  ;  he  kept  repeating  this  formula  as  if  it  might  be 
a  consolation  for  his  defeated  hopes  in  other  directions.  Some- 
how, now  that  he  was  no  longer  with  Maud,  he  began  to  realize 
that  there  would  be  need  of  consolation.  Yes,  it  was  very  much 
that  he  was  giving  up.  He  had  been  courted  and  flattered,  and 
had  become  an  important  personage.  If  only  his  father  had 
stayed  away  and  left  him  to  himself  !  What,  after  all,  did  these 
documents  amount  to — the  papers  which  he  was  by  no  means 
sure  were  genuine?  He  would  have  got  on  almost  as  well  with- 
out them ;  no  one  had  yet  turned  up  to  dispute  his  claim,  and  in 

295 


any  case  the  estates  were  obviously  as  far  away  as  ever.  lie  felt 
that  he  had  been  deluded  and  cheated,  not  reflecting  at  the  mo- 
ment that  he  had  wanted  to  delude  and  cheat  others.  And  Miss 
Lawrence — Mildred  !  what  would  she  think  of  it  all  ?  This  was 
the  question  in  his  mind  when  he  let  himself  into  his  own  rooms, 
and  gazed  curiously  about,  with  a  sense  that  the  possession  of 
them  had  already  passed  away  from  him.  Mildred  !  who  would 
learn  that  he  had  never  been  Baron  Smolzow  at  all.  He  threw 
himself  into  a  chair,  and  sat  there  for  a  long  time  in  the  dim 
light,  hardly  stirring  except  now  and  then  to  press  his  hands  to 
his  throbbing  temples.  The  fire  in  the  grate  burned  very  low, 
and  still  he  sat  there.  When  he  heard  the  hour  of  midnight 
counted  out  by  a  neighbouring  clock,  he  rose  with  a  half-sup- 
pressed groan  and  went  to  bed.  It  was  some  time  after  that 
before  his  father  came  home,  and  Baretta  had  fallen  asleep  and 
did  not  hear  him. 

296 


CHAPTER    XXIX 
HERR  EMIL   SETS  A  TRAP 

"On  yes  ;  you  shall  get  even  rait  him  some  days,"  Herr  Emil 
was  saying.  As  soon  as  he  saw  that  longer  argument  was  hope- 
less he  had  taken  Dolan  by  the  arm  and  had  led  him  from  the 
room.  "  It  ees  true  vat  he  says ;  you  haf  no  right  to  touch  her. 
You  vill  get  into  trouble.  Oh  yes — I  know!  But  ven  you 
leesten  to  me  I  vill  show  you  a  vay."  It  was  then  that  he  had 
hurried  Dolan,  dazed  and  helpless,  down  the  stairs.  "  You  vill 
find  it  very  comique,"  he  said  to  the  worthy  Jacksons,  who  were 
still  lying  in  wait  below  with  the  hope  of  satisfying  their  curi- 
osity. He  half  dragged,  half  pushed,  his  companion  through 
the  door ;  then  he  stood  on  the  pavement  looking  back  at  fhe 
house.  "  Oh  yes ;  you  shall  get  even  mit  him  some  days," 
Herr  Emil  said. 

"  She's  a  dacent  gyurl — I'd  have  ye  know  that,"  cried  Dolan, 
starting  to  go  up  the  steps  again. 

"  He  vill  marry  her ;  oh  yes,  he  vill  marry  her.  I  am  his 
fader,  and  I  vill  see  to  dat.  You  come  avay  ;  it  ees  no  goot  you 
can  do.  And  I  vant  to  tell  you  some  tings.  You  must  leesten 
to  me." 

"  I'll  take  her  away,  an'  be  dommed  to  ye  !  Lave  me  alone  ! 
I'll  knock  ye  down  if  ye  don't,"  Dolan  said,  trying  to  free  him- 
self from  Herr  Emil's  grasp. 

"  Do  not  you  be  a'  fool,  too.  It  ees  no  goot  you  can  do,  I  say, 
by  going  back.  If  you  vill  come  mit  me  I  haf  a  plan  to  tell 
you.  Oh,  it  ees  a  great  plan — you  shall  see." 

"  The  durrty  blackguard  !  I  mane  to  punch  his  dom  head, 
that  I  do." 

297 


"  Ja,  Ja  !  It  vill  be  so  ven  you  leesten  to  me."  Hcrr  Emil 
took  Dolan  by  the  arm  again.  "  Vare  do  you  go  ?  I  veesh  to 
talk  it  ofer  mit  you." 

Dolan  hesitated.  "  If  ye're  afther  playin'  any  tricks  on  me — " 
he  began. 

"  No,  no — it  ees  no  trick.  Mon  Dieu  !  I  am  his  fader,  and 
he  despise  me — he  defy  me  !  I  vill  make  him  sorry.  Come — 
I  veesh  you  to  help  me." 

After  all,  Dolan  thought,  more  might  be  gained  by  listening 
to  this  strange  man  than  by  going  back.  He  had  come  to  see 
Maud  in  spite  of  Luck's  command  that  he  should  not  do  so, 
and  he  was  a  little  uncertain  as  to  the  outcome  of  it  all.  When, 
after  tracking  Maud  and  Baretta  to  the  house  in  Roxbury,  he 
had  told  Luck  of  his  discovery,  he  had  been  made  to  promise 
that  he  would  do  nothing  further  until  he  was  bid.  He  had 
grumbled  at  this,  but  another  five  dollars  had  quieted  his  scru- 
ples for  the  time.  The  more  he  thought  it  over,  however,  the 
hotter  his  rage  against  the  young  man  became.  Why  should 
he  lose  a  chance  to  pay  him  out,  just  to  please  Luck  ?  There 
was  no  satisfaction  in  a  promise  of  vicarious  vengeance.  Dolan 
brooded  over  his  wrongs  all  day,  and  in  the  evening  went  out 
to  Roxbury  again.  He  saw  Baretta  enter  the  house,  and  then, 
after  a  moment  of  hesitation,  rushed  up  the  steps  and  rang  the 
bell.  "  I  want  to  see  my  gyurl,"  was  the  only  explanation  which 
he  vouchsafed  to  Mr.  Jackson,  as  he  brushed  by  him  and  stumped 
up  the  stairs,  guided  by  the  sound  of  Maud's  voice  above,  crying 
out  apparently  in  fear.  And  now  he  hadn't  succeeded  in  getting 
even  with  anybody,  but  was  being  led  away  by  this  persuasive 
stranger — the  other  foreigner,  who  said  he  was  Baretta's  father. 

"  If  you're  decayvin'  me  it  '11  be  the  worst  day's  work  yous 
ever  did,"  Dolan  said,  turning  to  Herr  Emil,  as  they  walked  down 
the  street. 

"  Deceif  you  ?  Oh  no !  I  vill  tell  you  vat  I  do,"  replied 
Herr  Emil,  blandly. 

"Ye'd  better  tell  Luck."  The  situation  was  quite  beyond 
Dolan's  comprehension,  but  it  occurred  to  him  that  Luck,  who 
hated  Baretta  so  vindictively,  would  know  how  to  deal  with  it. 
"  Are  ye  a  frind  to  the  poor  man  ?"  Dolan  asked. 

298 


"  De  poor  man  ?"  repeated  Herr  Emil. 

"  Eecaze  I  could  take  ye  to  our  society,"  continued  Dolan. 

"  Your  society  ?  Oh,  it  ees  for  poor  men,  nicht  wahr  ?  I  see, 
I  see." 

"  Do  ye  ?  Well,  we  don't  want  no  tliraitors,  moind  that. 
We  pitch  them  into  the  shtrate,  the  way  we  did  him — an'  dom 
him  for  the  whack  he  gave  me !" 

"And  Luck?  Who  is  Monsieur  Luck?"  asked  Herr  Emil. 
"  And — pardon  ! — who  are  you  ?" 

"  I'm  Peter  Dolan,  I  am,  and  a  bad  un  to  handle  whin  I'm 
mad.  Just  you  remember  that,  Misther  Furriner !" 

"  Ah,  Dolong  !  cher  Dolong  !  I  am  Emil — der  fader  of  der 
Herr  Baron  Smolzow.  You  ask,  vy  I  am  Emil,  and  he  der  Herr 
Baron  ?  You  vill  know  some  days.  It  ees  our  leetle  zecret. 
But,  oh  yes — you  vill  know  some  days.  And  who  is  Monsieur 
Luck  ?" 

"  His  name's  Steve,  not  Moosyear,  Mr.  Emil,"  said  Dolan. 
"  An'  it's  that  b'y  of  yours  he's  afther  fer  callin'  him  a  bloody 
scoundrel.  Him  and  me  is  frinds." 

"  Ah,  ha  —  so  !  so  !  I  learn  mooch  from  you,  Dolong ;  it 
ees  a  goot  ting  ve  shall  haf  to  do.  Dolong,  vare  is  Stefe- 
Luck  ?" 

"  I'll  take  ye  there — if  ye're  a  rale  frind  to  the  poor  man." 
Dolan  added,  suspiciously. 

Thus  it  was  that  Luck,  in  the  midst  of  a  violent  harangue  to 
the  crowd  gathered  thickly  about  the  tables  of  the  familiar  back 
room  in  Eliot  Street,  saw  Dolan  entering  with  a  person  whom  he 
immediately  recognized  as  the  crafty-looking  foreigner  who  was 
associated  with  Baretta.  He  was  a  good  deal  disconcerted,  but 
after  a  moment  of  incoherence  he  went  on  with  his  remarks. 
What  foolish  piece  of  business  had  Dolan  done  now  ?  he  asked 
himself.  Why  had  he  gone  beyond  his  orders,  which  were  to 
watch  and  report,  but  do  nothing,  nor  make  his  presence  known 
in  any  way  ?  Luck  was  furious  at  this  interference  with  his 
plans — an  interference  that  might  bring  them  to  naught.  What 
an  ass  he  had  been  to  trust  Dolan  at  all !  Perhaps  it  was  this 
reflection  that  gave  added  energy  to  his  denunciation  of  the 
manufacturing  firm  he  was  attacking.  "Fight  'em  with  their 

299 


own  weapons,  the  dirty  villains  !"  Luck  cried.  "  Don't  you 
know  that  every  foreman  in  the  shop  carries  a  revolver  ?  that 
the  superintendent  by  pressing  a  button  can  have  fifty  damned 
cops  to  shoot  you  down  ?  But  when  it  comes  to  shooting  the 
best  man  is  the  fellow  that  shoots  first — just  you  remember 
that." 

"  No,  no,  Luck !"  cried  Ditton,  interrupting  him  at  this  point. 
"You  don't  quite  mean  that." 

"  It's  what  I  do  mean,  Mr.  Ditton  !"  retorted  Luck,  angrily. 
"  Would  they  spare  us  ?  Why  should  we  spare  them  ?" 

A  sudden  burst  of  applause  came  from  the  corner  where  Herr 
Emil  and  Dolan  were  sitting.  Luck  glanced  in  that  direction, 
and  saw  that  the  foreigner  was  clapping  his  hands  with  the  ut- 
most enthusiasm — a  discovery  which  partially  moderated  his 
wrath  against  Dolan  for  disobeying  orders.  Perhaps  Dolan  had 
not  been  such  a  fool,  after  all. 

"  No,  no  !"  said  Ditton  again.  "  Look  here,  my  men,  you 
know  that  I  want  you  to  have  your  rights — yes,  and  by  force  if 
necessary.  But  that  sort  of  thing  is  nothing  but  murder — you 
can't  call  it  war — unless  you  shoot  them  in  self-defence." 

At  this  point  a  strange  interruption  occurred.  "Vill  der 
shentleman  leesten  to  me  ?"  cried  Herr  Emil,  rising  from  his 
seat  in  spite  of  Dolan's  efforts  to  pull  him  back. 

"  You  !  who  the  devil  are  you  ?"  Luck  retorted. 

"  I  vill  make  it  plain,"  said  Herr  Emil,  blandly.  He  came 
down  between  the  tables  towards  the  head  of  the  room.  "  I 
beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  bowing  first  to  Luck  and  then  to 
Ditton.  "  It  ees  a  place  for  free  spiking — nicht  wakr  I" 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  repeated  Luck.  "  What  do  you  mean  by 
interfering  ?" 

"  Pardon  !  you  do  not  veesh  me  to  spik  ?  I  come  from 
Oesterreich — vat  you  call  Austria — and  I  haf  seen  many  things. 
It  ees  the  landt  vare  der  beeple  are  crushed.  But  pardon.  I 
spik  not." 

"  We  shall  be  glad  to  hear  you  speak,  sir,  when  our  friend 
Luck  has  finished,"  said  Ditton,  courteously.  "  I  am  sure  you 
will  have  something  interesting  to  tell  us." 

"Ja-jjaf  sehr  interresant  /"  murmured  Herr  Emil.  "  Par- 

300 


don !"  And  he  sat  down  and  looked  up  at  Luck  with  ^  air  of 
expectation. 

"  I've  had  so  many  interruptions  that  I  guess  I  mibi.i  as  well 
stop  now,"  observed  Luck,  with  an  air  of  disgust. 

"  Go  on,  go  on,"  urged  Ditton.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  put  you 
out." 

"  Well,  you  did,  whether  you  meant  it  or  not,"  was  the  un- 
gracious retort.  "  What's  this  foreigner  got  to  say,  anyway  ?" 
Luck  added,  suspiciously.  He  could  not  at  all  understand  why 
Dolan  had  brought  him  here,  or  what  his  coming  forward  to 
speak  meant.  If  anything  happened  in  consequence,  he  would 
teach  Dolan  a  lesson,  that  was  all.  The  drunken  fool !  who 
couldn't  keep  anything  to  himself,  not  even  when  he  was  well 
paid  for  it.  "  He'll  never  get  another  five  dollars  out  of  me," 
Luck  said  to  himself.  But  here  was  the  foreigner  at  his  elbow, 
bowing  and  apologizing.  "  No,  I've  got  nothing  more  to  say," 
he  told  Hcrr  Emil,  curtly.  "  You  and  Ditton  know  a  heap  more 
than  I  do,  and  I'll  give  up  to  you."  He  laughed  in  a  disagree- 
able way,  and  turned  his  back  upon  the  protesting  visitor. 

"Dummkopff"  muttered  Herr  Emil,  with  a  sudden  malicious 
glance.  Then  he  turned  to  the  expectant  audience  at  the  tables 
with  an  extremely  confidential  smile.  "  I  tell  you  sometings 
you  vill  be  gladt  to  hear,"  he  said.  "  It  ees  a  badt  place  vare 
I  come  from — ven  you  hear  how  badt  you  vill  tink  keeling  too 
goot  for  dem."  With  this  preface  Herr  Emil  launched  forth 
into  a  vivid  description  of  the  evils  which  poverty  had  to  en- 
dure under  the  crushing  dominion  of  the  Hapsburgs — the  ty- 
rants, he  told  his  hearers,  against  whom  the  good  Kossuth  had 
fought  in  vain.  Even  Luck  began  to  look  a  little  less  surly. 
This  was  the  right  kind  of  talk,  he  told  himself ;  and  he  kept 
wondering  more  and  more  who  this  foreigner  was,  and  why 
Dolan  had  brought  him  here.  And  yet  Luck's  attitude  was 
one  of  suspicion.  Any  man  who  was  in  with  Baretta  ought  to 
be  watched  pretty  closely.  That  was  a  point  which  had  not  oc- 
curred to  him  before,  but  the  more  lie  reflected  upon  it  the 
more  reasonable  it  seemed.  Yes,  that  was  it ;  there  was  some 
scheme  on  foot,  and  this  crafty  old  fox  was  working  in  Baretta's 
interest.  What  a  fool  Dolan  was !  and  what  a  fool  he  himself 

301 


had  been  to  trust  Dolan !     He  scarcely  heard  Herr  Emil's  de- 
nunciations of  Austrian  tyranny  for  thinking  of  this. 

"  Eh,  bien  /"  Herr  Emil  exclaimed  at  last,  "  it  ees  a  leetle  his- 
tory I  vas  veeshing  to  tell  you,  my  frendts — a  history  zat 
makes  my  heart  bleedt.  It  vas  a  young  man — oh,  a  fine  young 
man ! — who  took  up  der  pattle  of  der  poor  against  der  reech. 
He  come  to  meetings — he  say  goot  vorts — how  he  die  for  his 
brethren  in  der  great  fight  for  Freiheit.  Mon  Dieu  f  how  he 
talk  !  Some  of  you  know  such  a  young  man,  eh  ?" 

Luck  caught  this  last  question,  and  as  the  speaker  paused 
called  out,  "  Well,  I  guess  there's  one  young  man  I  know — and 
what  he's  up  to." 

"  So?"  asked  Herr  Emil,  in  no  wise  disconcerted.  "  Ve  come 
to  dat,  Monsieur  Stefe-Luck,  ve  come  to  dat." 

"Who  the  devil  are  you?"  cried  Luck,  jumping  up,  "and 
what  do  you  call  me  that  for?" 

"  Oh,  you  vill  see  who  I  am,"  said  Herr  Emil.  By  this  time 
everybody  in  the  room,  suspecting  that  something  unusual  was 
to  come,  was  keenly  interested.  The  hum  of  conversation  had 
entirely  died  away.  Men  even  forgot  to  drain  their  glasses  as 
they  leaned  forward  with  a  hand  behind  one  ear,  so  as  not  to 
lose  a  syllable.  Ditton,  who  had  not  paid  any  especial  heed  to 
the  earlier  part  of  the  harangue,  was  now  gazing  steadily  at  the 
speaker,  his  eyes  sparkling  under  his  knitted  black  brows.  As 
for  Dolan,  who  had  indirectly  been  the  cause  of  Herr  Emil's 
appearance,  he  sat  tilted  back  against  the  wall  in  open- 
mouthed  amazement.  "The  cheek  of  the  dommed  furriner!" 
he  muttered  once  or  twice.  Wouldn't  Luck  give  it  to  him  if 
he  knew! 

"You  vill  see  who  I  am,"  repeated  Herr  Emil,  looking  around 
upon  his  audience  with  a  pleased  smile.  "  Monsieur  Stefe-Luck 
will  be  gladt  vy  I  came.  Eh,  bien  !  I  ask,  some  of  you  know 
such  a  young  man.  He  tell  you  how  great  a  frendt  of  yours  he 
vas  ;  den  he  leaf  you  for  der  reech,  der  svells.  Eh  ?  eh  ?  And 
he  knock  down  der  good  fader  of  Mees  Maudt.  Oh,  yes — you 
know  der  Herr  Baron  Smolzow — you  know  Herr  Baretta.  And 
he  vas  a  traitor — a  tarn  traitor ;  I  tell  you  dat !" 

Luck  sprang  to  his  feet  again  with  an  oath.     "  You're  right 

302 


there  !"  he  cried,  "  and  him  to  call  me  a  scoundrel !  What  is  it 
you  know  of  Baretta  ?  Why  do  you  call  him  a  traitor  ?  He's 
all  that  fast  enough,  damn  him !  but  what  do  you  know  about 
it  ?  and  why  do  you  come  here  to  tell  us  ?  Oh,  you  needn't 
play  any  of  your  foreign  tricks  on  me.  I  know  you — you're  his 
pal ;  you're  up  to  some  plant,  and  you've  come  here  to  spy  upon 
us.  Men,"  cried  Luck,  turning  to  the  now  excited  crowd,  "  why 
don't  you  chuck  the  dirty  foreigner  out  ?" 

"  I  guess  we  had  about  enough  of  that  sort  of  talk  from  you, 
Luck,  once  before,"  said  Ditton,  coolly,  but  with  an  air  of  au- 
thority which  no  one  ventured  to  dispute  this  time.  On  that 
other  occasion,  when  they  had  followed  Luck's  lead,  instead  of 
Ditton's,  the  result  had  not  been  altogether  satisfactory,  the 
disturbance  having  very  nearly  cost  them  this  extremely  com- 
fortable meeting  place.  Consequently  there  was  laughter  and 
applause  when  Ditton  spoke,  and  several  cries  of  "  That's  so !" 
and  "You  bet!" 

But  Herr  Emil,  who  still  had  his  revolver  in  his  pocket,  had 
not  been  greatly  alarmed  by  Luck's  threat.  "  Monsieur  Stefe- 
Luck,"  he  said,  smiling,  "  you  mistake.  I  am  no  friend  to  that 
tarn  Baretta.  I  come  here  " — and  his  smile  became  vindictively 
malicious  as  he  spoke  —  "  to  tell  you  all  vat  tings  he  do.  He 
say  he  vas  Baron  Smolzow — he  leaf  you  and  go  into  der  fine 
houses,  vare  he  lif  like  a  brince,  and  trink  der  wein  and  eat  of 
goot  tings.  He  haf  a  story  in  de  papers — oh,  you  see  it! 
Baron  Smolzow  !  he  is  no  baron — he  is  a  fraudt,  a  sheat,  a  low 
scamp,  who  tries  to  steal  der  fine  landts  and  goots  of  a  great 
house  !  He  a  Smolzow  !  Pah !  it  makes  me  seeck  !  Vy  don't 
you  show  him  up  ?  Vy  not  tell  de  papers  about  it  ?  Everytings 
is  goot  for  de  papers  in  America." 

"  Yes,  show  him  up — put  it  in  the  papers  !"  cried  several 
men.  But  in  truth  the  most  of  Herr  Emil's  listeners  had  a  very 
vague  idea  of  the  nature  of  the  charge  against  Baretta.  They 
had  expected  some  great  sensation,  and  they  now  felt  that  they 
had  been  deluded.  They  cared  very  little  for  Baretta's  defec- 
tion, anyway.  They  understood  that  he  had  got  some  money 
somehow  and  called  himself  a  baron.  But  what  concern  was 
that  of  theirs  ?  Most  of  them  had  never  liked  him,  and  so  had 

303 


felt  that  they  were  well  rid  of  him.  "  Is  that  all  it  is  ?"  said  one 
to  another. 

Herr  Erail's  story,  however,  had  rather  more  interest  for  Dit- 
ton  and  for  Luck,  and  before  the  evening  was  over  he  had 
given  them  a  number  of  interesting  details,  and  had  told  the 
circumstances  of  the  rise  of  Baron  Smolzow  more  coherently. 
"  I  am  sadly  disappointed  in  that  young  man,"  was  Ditton's 
comment ;  and  that  was  all  which  he  would  say.  But  Luck, 
when  the  meeting  broke  up,  insisted  that  Herr  Emil  and 
Mr.  Dolan  should  come  with  him  to  a  quiet  little  place  that  he 
knew  of,  where  they  could  sit  and  drink  as  late  as  they  pleased. 
"  I  guess  we'll  want  to  talk  matters  over,"  Luck  said ;  "  and  I 
hope  you'll  take  no  offence,  Mr.  Emil,  at  anything  I  said  before 
I  knew  who  you  were." 

"  Eh,  bienf  Monsieur  Stefe-Luck,"  cried  Herr  Emil,  gayly. 
"  Ve  are  all  frendts  now,  nicht  loahr?" 

This  friendship  was  pledged  so  deeply  that  Herr  Emil  came 
home  with  an  unsteady  step,  but  he  had  learned  to  take  such 
incidents  philosophically,  and  knew  how  to  get  to  bed  almost  as 
softly  as  if  he  were  sober.  Thus  his  son  slept  on  undisturbed, 
although  the  fond  father  went  to  the  bedroom  door  once  or 
twice  and  amused  himself  by  shaking  his  fist  at  the  unconscious 
young  man.  "  The  tarn  ungrateful  fool !"  he  muttered. 

It  was  not  until  nearly  noon  of  the  next  day  that  Herr  Emil 
had  an  opportunity  to  speak  to  the  Baron,  although  there  was 
one  most  important  matter  he  wished  to  impart.  The  Baron 
had  dressed  and  gone  out  when  his  confidential  adviser  arose,  a 
little  after  nine,  and  thoughtfully  munched  his  toast  and  drank 
his  coffee ;  he  had  a  way  of  taking  his  simple  breakfast,  sent 
up  from  the  lower  regions  when  he  rang  for  it,  quite  without 
ceremony,  in  the  easy  costume  of  a  long  bath-robe.  "  Eh,  bien  /" 
said  Herr  Emil,  thoughtfully.  "  There  vill  be  der  teffel  to  pay." 
The  idea  evidently  amused  him,  for  he  grinned  several  times 
and  said  once  more,  "  Oh  yes — der  teffel  vill  be  to  pay." 

When  he  had  finished  his  breakfast  he  proceeded  to  drag  out 
from  the  bedroom  a  good-sized  box,  covered  with  leather  and 
stamped  with  the  name  Smolzow.  This  he  carefully  erased  with 
the  aid  of  a  sharp  penknife ;  then  he  began  to  pack  into  the 

304 


box  various  articles  of  clothing,  and  certain  small  objects  of  value 
which  he  selected  from  time  to  time  after  meditative  glances 
around  the  room.  The  Baron  had  carelessly  left  his  very  hand- 
some gold  watch  lying  upon  his  desk,  and  when  Herr  Emil  saw 
this  he  dropped  it  into  his  pocket,  murmuring,  "  He  ees  a  care- 
less young  man  !"  with  a  smile  that  was  blandly  benevolent. 
He  unlocked  the  desk  with  a  key  from  his  own  ring,  and  after 
hastily  rummaging  through  the  contents,  found  a  package  of 
bank-notes  and  some  papers,  which  he  placed  in  an  inner  pocket. 
Then  he  rang  the  bell  and  requested  the  small  boy  who  answer- 
ed it  to  get  an  expressman  at  once.  Herr  Emil  contemplated 
the  leather  box  with  a  good  deal  of  satisfaction  after  he  had 
locked  it,  and  strapped  it  tightly,  and  while  he  was  waiting  for 
the  expressman  to  arrive.  "  Der  teffel  vill  be  to  pay,"  he  said 
once  more,  shaking  his  head  and  smiling. 

It  was  while  the  box  was  being  carried  down  the  stairs  that 
Baretta  came  in.  "  Where  are  you  going  now  ?"  he  asked  his 
father,  curtly. 

"Going?  Nevare  you  mind  vare  I  am  going.  You  vill  not 
see  me  again." 

"  What !"  Baretta  cried,  a  little  agitated  in  spite  of  himself 
at  this  unexpected  declaration.  "You  are  going,  and  not  com- 
ing back  ?" 

"  Vy  should  I  come  back  ?  You  defy  me — you  cast  me  off ; 
you  say  I  can  go  to  the  teffel  for  vat  you  care.  You  make  a 
tarn  fool  of  yourself  about  Maudt.  Pah  !  I  am  seeck  and  tired 
of  it.  I  go — forevare."  Then  Herr  Emil  pointed  dramatically 
towards  the  open  door,  through  which  his  box  was  at  that  mo- 
ment disappearing.  "  I  go — oh  yes ;  but  you  vill  hear  from 
me."  He  burst  into  a  laugh,  which,  somehow,  seemed  to 
mock  the  young  man  who  stood  gazing  at  him.  "You  vill  hear 
from  me,  Frangois."  He  touched  his  fingers  to  his  lips,  and 
gayly  blew  a  kiss.  "Oh,  it  ees  a  grief  to  both  of  us,  nicht 
wahr?  Adieu,  Francois."  He  laughed  again,  and  Baretta 
heard  him  humming  a  tune  as  he  went  down  the  stairs  and  out 
into  the  street. 

u  305 


CHAPTER  XXX 
A  FRUITLESS  MISSION 

Two  days  after  this,  Yates,  coming  out  of  the  Pilgrim  Club, 
met  one  of  the  young  men  employed  upon  the  Mail  with  whom 
he  had  a  slight  acquaintance.  He  had  been  thinking  rather 
gloomily  of  his  promise  to  Daisy  Tredwell.  What  was  there 
that  he  could  do  ?  If  Mildred  really  cared  for  Baretta,  why 
should  any  one  interfere  ?  After  all,  there  was  nothing  but  sus- 
picion against  him,  and  suspicion  was  a  dangerous  guide  in  such 
a  case.  To  say  that  he  was  not  a  gentleman  was  an  argument 
which  one  would  be  rather  ashamed  to  urge.  In  these  days  of 
social  equality — that,  at  any  rate,  was  what  we  called  them — it 
was  really  no  argument  at  all.  And  yet  if  it  were  a  question  of 
saving  Mildred  from  future  unhappiness,  what  would  he  not  do  ? 

"I'm  working  up  something  that  ought  to  interest  you,"  said 
young  Parker.  "  Walk  along  over  the  hill  with  me,  and  I'll  tell 
you  all  about  it." 

"  Some  new  sensation,  I  dare  say,"  observed  Philip,  languidly, 
obeying  this  injunction,  nevertheless.  "  You  fellows  are  always 
knocking  down  some  one's  house  of  cards." 

"  Ah,  but  it's  a  whole  castle  this  time.  See  here,  Mr.  Yatcs, 
if  I  give  you  a  hint,  you  must  keep  it  quite  to  yourself.  I  want 
to  scoop  the  town  on  this  story." 

"  Oh,  well,  why  trust  me  at  all  ?" 

"  Perhaps  you'll  see  why  when  I  tell  you  whose  castle  it  is. 
Have  you  heard,"  young  Parker  asked,  looking  at  him  suddenly, 
"  of  the  ancestral  estates  at  Bataszek  ?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Philip  asked. 

"  Oh  !"  said  Parker,  with  a  laugh.  "  I  see  you  have  heard  of 

306 


them.  Well,  I  should  say  the  prospect  was  that  they  would  go 
to  the  next  of  kin.  Baron  Smolzow  is  likely  to  find  it  extreme- 
ly inconvenient  to  push  his  claim.  It's  rather  rough  on  him, 
for  I  hear  that  he's  been  cutting  a  pretty  wide  swath  of  late." 

"  Baron  Smolzow  ?      Then  he  has  no  right  to  the  title  at  all?" 

"  That's  about  what  it  means.  Oh,  it's  quite  a  story.  They'll 
read  the  Mail  on  the  Back  Bay  the  morning  it  comes  out.  Why, 
Mr.  Yates,  the  man  is  a  swindler.  That  precious  secretary  of  his 
is  his  real  father — he's  no  more  a  baron  than  I  am.  There  un- 
doubtedly was  a  Paul  Baretta  who  came  to  this  country,  and 
that  fellow  Emil  fell  in  with  him  somehow  and  got  his  papers. 
But  the  Baron,  as  he  calls  himself,  is  Emil's  own  son." 

To  say  that  Philip  was  astounded  by  this  piece  of  news  would 
be  to  put  it  mildly.  He  had  suspected  Baretta  all  along,  and 
yet  the  truth  was  a  shock  to  him.  "  Are  you  sure  of  this  ?"  he 
asked,  at  last.  "  It  would  be  an  outrageous  thing  to  print  such 
a  story  unless  you  were  sure." 

"  Sure  ?  Oh,  don't  you  worry  about  that.  Emil  himself  has 
given  the  business  away.  I  can't  see  why  he  did  it,  but  that's 
of  small  consequence.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  Emil  can't  be 
found.  But  there's  no  doubt  as  to  his  confession.  I  have  sev- 
eral witnesses  who  can  swear  to  that."  -, 

"  Who  are  they  ?     How  did  you  know  of  it  ?" 

"  Well,  really,  Mr.  Yates,  you'll  have  to  excuse  me.  I  couldn't 
tell  you  that ;  I  couldn't,  indeed.  I  got  a  clew  two  days  ago 
from  a  fellow  named  Luck — one  of  those  agitators  that  I  under- 
stand Baretta  used  to  be  in  with — and  I've  been  following  it  up 
ever  since  in  various  ways.  Of  course,"  Parker  added,  in  a  rather 
embarrassed  fashion,  "  there's  a  good  deal  of  back  -  stairs  gos- 
sip about  it,  but  it  doesn't  do  for  us  newspaper  men  to  be  too 
particular.  But,  I  say,"  he  went  on,  "  if  you  could  spare  me 
half  an  hour,  and  let  me  read  you  my  notes — " 

"Oh,  I  won't  have  anything  to  do  with  it,"  said  Philip, 
promptly. 

"  But  he  was  a  friend  of  yours — at  least  you  knew  him,"  Par- 
ker said.  "  And  the  thing  is  bound  to  make  such  a  sensation, 
don't  you  know,  that  I  would  like  to  be  sure  my  story  is  as 
nearly  correct  as  possible.  You  see,  they've  been  lionizing  him 

307 


a  good  deal.  And  then  that  paragraph  in  the  Weekly  Packet 
this  morning  about  his  engagement  to  Sibley  Lawrence's  daugh- 
ter—" 

"  What !"  cried  Philip,  angrily.  "  How  dare  you  mention 
her  name  in  such  a  connection  ?" 

"  See  here,  Mr.  Yates,"  said  Parker,  looking  aggrieved,  "  you're 
rather  unjust.  Pm  merely  telling  you  what  I  saw  in  the  Packet. 
I  don't  say  it's  true." 

"  True  ?  No,  of  course  it  isn't  true.  Don't  put  that  in  your 
story." 

"  Well,  of  course,  if  it's  any  favour  to  you — "  Parker  began, 
reluctantly. 

True  ?  Philip  was  saying  to  himself.  How  could  it,  oh,  how 
could  it  be  true  ?  Yet  some  wretched  scribbler  had  published 
the  idle  tale,  and  all  the  city  would  be  talking  about  it.  Such 
a  thing  would  have  been  bad  enough  in  any  case,  but  to  have  it 
happen  now,  to  have  her  name  mixed  up  with  this  vulgar  scan- 
dal —  that  was  worst  of  all.  "  Why  not  suppress  the  whole 
story?"  said  Philip.  "Come  to  my  rooms — they're  near  by,  in 
Livingstone  Place — and  talk  the  matter  over." 

"  Suppress  the  whole  story  !"  exclaimed  the  reporter,  rather 
irritably.  "  I  dare  say  that  seems  to  you  to  be  a  very  small 
thing  ;  but  I  have  my  living  to  make,  and  it's  worth  everything 
to  me  to  get  a  scoop  like  this.  Of  course,"  he  added,  diplomat- 
ically, reflecting  that,  after  all,  Yates  might  have  something  of  in- 
terest to  say,  or  might  at  least  make  some  unconscious  confes- 
sions which  would  be  of  use  to  him,  "  I  shall  be  very  glad  to 
spare  a  few  minutes,  if  you  wish." 

But  no  amount  of  talking  it  over  could  sway  Parker  from 
his  determination  to  give  the  readers  of  the  Mail  this  choice 
morsel  of  gossip.  The  most  that  he  would  do  was  to  promise 
Yates  to  let  him  know  just  when  the  story  would  be  published. 
"  I  must  look  out  that  none  of  the  other  fellows  get  ahead  of 
me,"  Parker  explained,  "  and  I  may  have  to  spring  it  pretty  sud- 
denly, but  I  will  give  you  what  notice  I  can.  And  I  won't  say 
anything  about  Miss  Lawrence — although  I  have  an  interview 
here  with  the  Lawrences'  coachman,  and  with  the  grocer's  boy 
who's  keeping  company  with  one  of  the  house -maids.  You 

308 


needn't  look  as  if  you'd  like  to  murder  me ;  it's  what  we  fellows 
have  to  do  if  we  want  to  keep  up  with  the  procession." 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Philip,  repressing  as  well  as  he  could  the 
indignation  which  he  felt,  "  I  think  I'd  stay  behind." 

Young  Parker  slipped  his  note-book  into  his  pocket  as  he 
rose,  and  laughed  pleasantly.  "Don't  be  too  hard  on  us,  Mr. 
Yates,"  he  said.  "  A  man  has  a  natural  prejudice  in  favour  of 
making  a  living,  after  all.  If  we  all  could  do  as  we  please,  no 
doubt  we'd  change  a  good  many  things." 

Philip  thought  afterwards  that  possibly  an  appeal  to  the  edi- 
tor himself  might  be  more  successful,  and  he  was  tempted  to 
see  Binney  at  once.  Then  he  reflected  that  perhaps  he  had  no 
right  to  make  any  movement  in  that  direction  until  Parker  gave 
him  the  word.  But  meanwhile  something  must  be  done.  How 
could  he  stand  by  and  see  this  misfortune  impending  and  do 
nothing?  What  gave  him  the  most  anguish  was  the  thought 
that  the  paragraph  of  which  Parker  had  spoken  might  be  true. 
Perhaps  there  might  be  some  entanglement — he  could  not  use 
the  word  love  without  a  curious  sense  of  profanation — and  Mil- 
dred felt  bound  in  honour,  if  not  in  inclination,  to  keep  a  prom- 
ise the  full  significance  of  which  she  had  not  understood.  Such 
a  theory  might  be  absurd,  but  nothing  could  be  so  absurd  as  to 
suppose  that  she  really  cared  for  the  fellow.  The  preference 
of  the  loved  one  for  another  is  always  inexplicable,  even  to  the 
least  vain  of  men. 

No  doubt  it  was  folly  to  go  to  Baretta  himself,  but  this  it  was 
which  Philip  at  last  determined  to  do.  Surely  if  the  story  were 
false  it  was  only  fair  to  give  the  victim  of  it  some  warning. 
There  would  be  no  treachery  to  Parker  in  that.  But  if  it  were 
true  ?  He  hardly  dared  ask  what  he  should  do  in  that  case,  so 
menacing  were  the  possibilities  that  loomed  up  in  his  imagina- 
tion. The  only  thing  that  was  clear  in  his  mind  was  the  urgent 
need  of  saving  Mildred  from  humiliation.  He  had  no  more 
hope  of  regaining  her  love,  and  if  he  had  he  would  have  been 
the  last  man  in  the  world  to  go  this  way  about  it.  But  at  least 
he  would  save  her  from  an  unworthy  lover  if  he  could.  He 
had  little  confidence  that  Baretta  would  be  able  to  make  an 
effective  denial.  Upon  what  ground,  indeed,  could  he  ask  for 

309 


any  explanation  at  all  ?  And  yet  he  made  up  his  mind  to  go  to 
Baretta.  There  was  nothing  else  left  for  him  to  do.  He  waited 
until  evening,  and  then  went  to  the  rooms  in  Huntington  Av- 
enue. 

"  Oh,  Yates,  is  it  you  ?"  Baretta  said,  nonchalantly,  rising  to 
receive  his  visitor.  "  I  began  to  think  that  you  intended  to  cut 
me." 

"  I  hope  it  won't  come  to  that,"  said  Philip,  gravely. 

"  Take  off  your  coat,  Yates.  I  don't  smoke,  so  I  can't  offer 
you  a  cigar;  but  if  you  have  one  of  your  own,  pray  make  your- 
self quite  at  home.  You'll  find  this  a  comfortable  chair.  How 
do  you  like  my  quarters,  eh  ?"  Baretta  asked,  with  an  air  of  con- 
descension that  ignored  the  time  when  he  had  lived  in  a  single 
shabby  room  in  Arragon  Street.  Yates  had  never  visited  him 
there,  but  he  had  known  him  in  his  days  of  poverty,  and  it  was 
desirable  to  impress  him  with  a  consciousness  of  the  complete- 
ness of  the  change.  "I'm  a  little  put  out  this  evening,"  con- 
tinued Baretta,  "  because  my  man  left  me  very  suddenly  day 
before  yesterday,  and  I  haven't  yet  found  anybody  to  take  his 
place.  Those  fellows  are  an  ungrateful  lot.  I  had  done  every- 
thing for  him,  and  so  had  my  father,  while  he  was  alive.  You're 
looking  rather  pale,  ain't  you  ?  I  hope  nothing's  the  matter." 

"  Oh  no  ;  I  am  perfectly  well.  See  here,  Baretta  " — Philip 
burst  forth.  Then  the  embarrassment  of  the  situation  over- 
whelmed him  and  he  stopped  short  and  turned  away. 

"  I  prefer  to  be  called  by — by  my  proper  title,"  said  Baretta, 
rather  curtly.  "  Of  course  in  an  old  acquaintance  the  other 
name  is  quite  pardonable."  He  was  wondering  what  in  the 
world  Yates  had  to  say  to  him,  and  why  he  was  so  reluctant  to 
say  it.  He  did  not  for  a  moment  suspect  the  real  cause  of  his 
visit.  He  had  not  thought  of  his  father's  parting  words  as  a 
threat,  and  the  feeling  of  relief  at  being  rid  of  an  extremely  an- 
noying companion  had  made  him  positively  light-hearted.  The 
one  cloud  in  his  sky  was  his  promise  to  marry  Maud.  He  had 
no  intention  of  breaking  it,  but  still  it  was  hard  to  give  up  his 
aspirations  to  the  hand  of  Miss  Lawrence.  And  it  would  not 
be  so  easy  as  he  thought,  after  having  tasted  the  sweets  of  so- 
cial adulation,  to  go  back  to  the  old  life  of  inconspicuous  labour 

310 


for  the  good  of  mankind.  What  he  was  anxious  to  do  was  to 
devise  some  way  of  marrying  Maud  and  still  retaining  his  posi- 
tion as  Baron  Smolzow.  It  could  not  be,  he  argued,  that  all 
those  papers  which  he  had  in  his  possession  were  worthless. 
His  father  had  said  that,  trying  to  frighten  him.  But  he  was 
no  such  fool.  "  Oh  yes,  indeed,"  he  said  to  Yates,  "  it  seems 
very  queer  to  be  called  anything  but  Baron  Smolzow." 

"  This  is  no  time  for  titles — or  anything  else,"  Philip  retorted, 
brusquely.  "  I — I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  went  on,  "  but  there's 
no  use  beating  about  the  bush.  A  very  queer  story — about  you 
— came  to  my  knowledge  to-day,  and  I'm  going  to  ask  you 
frankly  whether  it's  true.  Perhaps  I  need  not  add  that  I  ex- 
pect you  to  answer  me  frankly." 

Baretta  turned  very  pale.  A  queer  story !  What  could  it  be 
but  the  one  story  which  he  had  hoped  would  never  be  known  ? 
The  moment  of  danger  had  taken  him  unawares,  in  spite  of 
his  knowledge  that  his  father  had  proclaimed  the  truth  before 
Maud  and  Dolan.  But  what  had  that  amounted  to  ?  Maud 
would  never  betray  him,  and  Dolan  was  too  stupid  to  understand 
the  meaning  of  the  declaration.  Now  for  the  first  time  the 
possible  significance  of  his  father's  departure  occurred  to  him. 
"  I  guess — I  don't  exactly  understand  you,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  I  don't  want  to  offend  you,  but  when  I  tell  you  what  the 
story  is  you  will  see  that  it  is  a  kindness  to  give  you  the  chance 
to  deny  it.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  it  reached  me.  But  it  is 
likely  to  appear  in  the  newspapers  at  any  moment ;  and,  false 
or  true,  you  ought  to  know  of  it." 

"  Yes  ?  Well,  if  you  would  tell  me  what  the  story  is,"  said 
Baretta,  rather  irritably,  "  perhaps  I  might  be  able  to  judge.  I 
don't  say  I'll  answer  any  impertinent  question  you  may  feel  in- 
clined to  ask,"  he  added.  "  I  don't  recognize  your  right  to  ask 
any  questions  at  all — understand  that." 

"  You  are  taking  a  very  unfortunate  tone,"  Yates  said.  "  I 
make  no  demands — I  simply  tell  you  that  it  is  for  your  interest 
to  answer  one  question.  What  right  have  you  to  the  title  of 
Baron  Smolzow  ?" 

"  What  right  ?  Every  right.  But  I  won't  talk  about  it — to 
you !"  Baretta  cried.  He  knew  now  well  enough  what  story 

311 


it  was  that  Yates  had  heard,  but  he  would  not  betray  the  terror 
which  he  felt. 

"  Oh,  very  well — that  is  for  you  to  decide.  I  didn't  come  in 
any  hostile  spirit.  I  should  be  glad  to  know  that  you  could  de- 
fend yourself  against  the  charges  that  are  to  be  brought  against 
you." 

"  Charges  ?  Whose  charges  ?  Let  them  try  to  prove  that  I 
am  no  baron.  I  have  the  papers — do  you  hear  me  ? — I  have  the 
papers.  But  what  is  the  use  of  talking  to  you  about  it  ?  You 
know  perfectly  well  that  this  is  some  trick — got  up,  I  suppose, 
by  that  man  of  mine  whom  I  discharged  for  his  cursed  imperti- 
nence. And  don't  you  think  that  I  don't  know  why  you  came 
to  me  with  this  silly  bugbear  !"  Baretta  exclaimed,  angrily.  "  Oh, 
I'm  not  quite  such  a  fool  as  that.  You've  always  hated  me — 
don't  deny  it ! — ever  since  1  began  to  get  on  in  the  world.  You 
wanted  me  to  be  a  poor  devil  that  you  could  patronize.  Why, 
damn  you,  do  you  suppose  I  was  such  a  fool  as  not  to  see  that  ? 
You  to  patronize  me  — a  fellow  with  nothing  but  your  money — 
and  your  notion  that  you  were  a  little  better  than  anybody  else  ! 
Oh  yes !  I  laughed  at  you  even  while  I  was  poor  and  unknown. 
And  I  got  the  better  of  you — I  can  go  to  houses  where  they 
would  show  you  the  door.  Oh,  you  know  that,  do  you  ?  To 
Miss  Lawrence's  house,  who  wouldn't  look  at  you — Miss  Law- 
rence— " 

"  You  cad !  You  cur !"  To  hear  Baretta  bring  Mildred's 
name  into  the  dispute  in  this  way  filled  Philip  with  a  sudden 
fury.  "  By  Heaven — " 

"Cur!"  shrieked  Baretta.  He  picked  up  a  sharp  steel  paper- 
knife,  which  happened  to  be  the  object  nearest  to  his  hand,  and 
hurled  it  at  Philip's  head.  It  missed  the  mark,  however,  and, 
whizzing  by,  struck  a  picture  on  the  wall,  shattering  the  glass 
into  fragments.  Before  he  could  repeat  the  attack  Philip  had 
rushed  forward  and  seized  him  by  the  arms,  pinioning  him  se- 
curely. 

"  Let  me  alone  !  let  me  alone  !"  Baretta  plunged  wildly,  but 
he  was  no  match  in  strength  for  Yates.  Finally  he  yielded  and 
made  no  further  effort  to  escape.  "  What  are  you  going  to  do 
with  me  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  husky  voice. 

312 


•'  Well,"  said  Philip,  "  I  think  you  ought  to  be  dropped  out 
of  the  window."  His  easy  victory  had  disposed  him  to  be  gen- 
erous, and  he  was  already  regretting  that  he  had  lost  his  temper, 
great  though  the  provocation  had  been.  "  But  I  hope  it  won't 
quite  come  to  murder."  Then  he  released  Baretta,  and  stepping 
back,  picked  up  his  hat. 

"  Murder !"  Baretta  cried,  glaring  at  him.  "  Oh,  well,  murder 
would  serve  some  people  just  about  right.  See  here,"  he  cried, 
as  Philip  moved  towards  the  door,  "  what  did  you  call  me  cur 
for  ?  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  I  wouldn't  have  lost  my  tem- 
per so." 

"  Indeed  !  Well,  I'm  afraid  that  I  can  hardly  explain — or 
apologize.  I  see  very  clearly,  however,  that  there  is  no  use  in 
prolonging  this  interview.  I  came  to  you  to  do  you  a  good 
turn,  although  you  may  not  think  so.  Now,  let  the  whole  thing 
come  out ;  I  wash  my  hands  of  all  interference." 

"  But,  see  here !  What  is  the  whole  thing  ?  You  haven't 
told  me  yet.  I  think  you  are  treating  me  very  unfairly — to  come 
here  with  tales  about  my  being  no  baron  at  all,  and  then  give  me 
no  chance  to  defend  myself.  If  you  hope  to  slander  me  to 
others — " 

"  I  have  said  nothing  to  any  one — I  shall  say  nothing  only 
to  one  person." 

"  And  that  is — who  ?" 

"  Pardon  me,  but  I  decline  to  answer.  If  you  had  told  me 
that  this  story  of  that  fellow  Emil's — I  believe  you  call  him  that 
— was  false,  and  given  me  some  reason  to  think  so,  no  one  would 
have  been  more  willing  than  I  to  help  you.  I  admit  that  I  have 
never  believed  you  to  be  Baron  Smolzow  or  anything  else,  but 
at  least  I  have  kept  my  mouth  shut  about  it.  Now  I  shall  take 
such  measures  to — to  protect  others  as  I  think  best.  I  tell  you 
once  more  that  this  is  a  serious  matter,  and  that  it  will  be  made 
public — I  can't  tell  when ;  perhaps  to-morrow,  for  all  I  know — 
unless  you  can  in  some  way  fully  establish  your  claim  and  re- 
fute the  assertions  of  the  man  who  says  he  is  your  father.  I 
don't  doubt  but  that  you  will  have  the  chance,  for  the  editor  of 
the  paper  which  has  the  facts  is  an  honourable  man.  And  that," 
said  Philip,  with  his  hand  on  the  knob,  ''is  all  I  have  to  say  to  you!" 

313 


What  folly  it  had  been  to  go  to  Baretta  at  all!  This  was 
what  Philip  was  thinking  as  he  came  away.  He  no  longer  had 
any  doubt  of  the  truth  of  the  revelations  which  Parker  was 
"working  up"  for  the  Mail :  perhaps  it  would  be  more  accurate 
to  say  that  he  had  never  had  any  doubt  at  all.  He  reproached 
himself  with  his  error  in  letting  Baretta  see  that.  He  might 
have  accomplished  his  mission  if  he  had  been  politic.  What  a 
fool  a  man  was  to  lose  his  temper !  Philip  felt  somehow  as  if 
he  had  put  himself  on  Baretta's  level  by  that  sudden  outburst 
of  wrath.  There  was  no  excuse,  after  all,  for  calling  even  this 
low-born  adventurer  a  cad  and  a  cur.  But  the  impudence  with 
which  he  had  vaunted  his  intimacy  with  the  Lawrences  had 
been  simply  maddening.  "  I  really  believe  the  fellow  is  more 
than  half  crazy,"  Philip  said  to  himself.  Certainly  there  had 
been  murder  in  his  heart  when  he  hurled  the  knife  at  Philip's 
head.  Philip  was  no  coward,  but  nevertheless  he  could  not  re- 
press a  shudder  when  he  recalled  Baretta's  wild  white  face  and 
glaring  dilated  eyes.  It  reminded  him  of  the  beast  of  prey 
about  to  spring  upon  his  victim.  Then  he  tried  to  laugh  this 
impression  away. 

But  the  task  which  he  had  undertaken  was  by  no  means  a 
light  one.  He  had  failed  to  get  Baretta  to  admit  anything,  to 
promise  to  abandon  his  pretensions  and  leave  the  city.  This 
was  what  he  had  hoped  to  do  when  he  made  his  appeal  to  him. 
Surely  that  would  have  been  the  best  thing  for  everybody. 
Now,  however,  there  was  no  hope  of  that.  He  must  save  Mil- 
dred, if  he  was  to  save  her,  in  some  other  way.  But  what  other 
way  was  there  ?  He  could  think  of  only  one,  and  that  was  to 
go  to  Daisy  Tredwell  with  the  story.  Under  ordinary  circum- 
stances he  would  have  shrunk  from  doing  this.  It  seemed  to 
him  to  be  a  mean  act,  unworthy  of  a  gentleman.  And  yet 
Baretta's  own  conduct  had  left  him  no  alternative.  He  could 
not  stand  by  and  see  Mildred  involved  in  the  impending  catas- 
trophe simply  because  he  was  reluctant  to  tell  the  truth  about 
a  swindler  and  adventurer.  He  would  not  recognize  the  fact 
that  his  feeling  of  rivalry  with  Baretta — a  feeling  which  he  had 
been  forced  in  the  past  to  admit,  hateful  as  the  notion  was — 
had  anything  to  do  with  this  reluctance.  It  was  altogether  ab- 

314 


surd  to  think  about  rivalry  at  all.  Nothing  could  be  more  clear 
than  that  he  had  given  up  all  hopes  of  a  reconciliation  with  the 
woman  whom  he  loved.  If  he  interfered  now  it  was  because  he 
still  wished  to  save  her  from  unhappiness,  however  unhappy  he 
himself  might  be.  She  had  not  been  generous  to  him,  but  he 
would  be  generous  to  her.  After  all,  perhaps  she  had  never 
really  loved  him.  He  was  a  fool  to  waste  the  best  years  of  his 
life  in  regretting  what  was  irremediable.  He  would  forget  an 
episode  that  was  best  forgotten.  It  was  not  the  first  time  that 
he  had  formed  this  resolution  only  to  break  it.  But  now  he 
had  quite  made  up  his  mind.  Perhaps  what  he  really  needed 
was  a  change  of  scene.  When  once  he  had  rescued  Mildred 
from  the  dangers  that  threatened  he  would  go  away,  and  then 
all  that  happened  would  be  like  some  bad  dream  that  a  new 
dawn  dispels.  He  was  sure  that  Daisy,  who  had  tried  to  help 
him,  would  say  that  this  was  wise.  Daisy  had  insisted  that 
Mildred  still  cared  for  him ;  but  that  was  absurd ;  how  could 
she  know  ?  Nevertheless,  he  was  very  grateful.  There  was  one 
person  in  the  world,  at  least,  who  understood  him,  who  sym- 
pathized with  him.  He  had  never  thought  of  such  a  thing  as 
falling  in  love  with  her,  but  now  he  vaguely  wondered  if  in  that 
case  he  might  not  have  been  happier.  It  was  an  idle  fancy,  of 
course ;  why  should  he  be  thinking  of  falling  in  love  at  all  ? 
He  was  a  man  past  the  first  flush  of  youth,  and  why  should  he 
be  mooning  like  a  school-boy  over  any  girl  ?  To  marry  Daisy 
Tredwell !  the  idea  was  quite  too  absurd.  He  was  in  no  mood 
to  marry  anybody.  He  had  dreamed  his  dream,  and  it  was  over, 
and  now  let  him  face  life  as  it  was,  untinged  by  the  false  glow 
of  sentiment.  But  he  must  save  Mildred ;  so  much,  at  least, 
should  be  done  for  the  sake  of  an  unreal  and  delusive  past.  And 
Daisy,  who  was  so  kind  and  true,  whose  volatile  nature  could 
not  conceal  a  warm  and  tender  heart,  would  help  him.  Had 
she  not  already  made  a  piteous  appeal  to  him  to  do  his  utmost 
for  Mildred's  sake  ?  Yes — it  was  to  Daisy  that,  he  must  go  now 
for  counsel. 

315 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
MAUD  BECOMES  ALARMED 

"  WHAT  has  happened  ?  Oh,  Frank,  tell  me  what  it  is  !"  Maud 
cried.  She  hurried  to  meet  him  with  a  vague  foreboding  of 
evil ;  his  face  was  pale  and  haggard,  and  there  was  a  feverish 
brightness  in  his  eyes.  "  Oh,  Frank,  I  hope  you  ain't  going  to 
be  sick  !  You  don't  know  how  dreadful  you  look." 

"  It's  foolish  for  you  to  leave  this  place.  Can't  you  get  along 
without  having  rows  ?"  asked  Baretta,  brusquely.  "  There's  noth- 
ing the  matter  with  me — it's  only  your  imagination.  That  wom- 
an down-stairs  is  insolent,  but  still  you  might  get  along  with 
her." 

"  I  am  leaving  to-morrow,  Frank.  You  wouldn't  want  me  to 
stay,  would  you,  after  she  had  talked  to  me  as  she  did?  The 
idea  of  her  saying  I  wasn't  respectable !  She's  no  lady,  and  I 
told  her  that  myself.  But,  Frank,  you  must  be  ill.  You're  as 
white  as  a  sheet  and — for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  sit  there  rolling 
your  eyes  at  me  like  that !  You  make  me  nervous." 

"  Nonsense !"  retorted  Baretta,  rising  and  walking  up  and 
down  the  little  room,  like  a  wild  animal  pacing  its  narrow  cage. 
"  I  have  a  lot  to  think  of,  that's  all.  Oh  yes,  a  lot  to  think  of. 
But  you'd  better  have  stayed  here — at  least,  for  a  time.  There's 
never  any  telling  what  may  happen." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  Maud  said.  His  manner 
alarmed  her.  She  was  sure  that  he  must  be  ill  in  spite  of  his 
denials;  or  perhaps  some  fit  of  sickness  was  coming  on — she 
had  heard  that  people  talked  and  acted  strangely  in  such  cases. 

"  You  don't  know  !"  cried  the  young  man,  with  a  sneer,  stop- 
ping and  facing  her.  "  Well,  there's  a  good  deal  you  don't 

316 


know — that  nobody  knows.  And  they  never  will  know!" 
Baretta  exclaimed.  "  Let  him  do  his  worst  ?  I  tell  you,  Maud, 
I  defy  him  to  do  his  worst.  What  do  I  care  now  ?  But,  Maud," 
he  went  on,  "  don't  you  join  the  gang  that's  working  against 
me.  By  Heaven,  if  you  did,  I  believe  I'd  kill  you !" 

"  Frank !  Frank !  do  you  know  what  you're  saying  ?  Oh, 
Frank,  you  must  be  sick !  I  guess  I'd  better  get  a  doctor  for 
you." 

"  Doctor  be  damned !  See  here,  Maud,  if  you  can't  talk  sen- 
sibly to  me,  I  might  as  well  go.  I  thought  you'd  help  me 
against  them.  But  there  it  is — you're  on  their  side,  too.  You're 
ready  to  go  back  on  me  like  the  rest  of  them.  You'll  believe 
anything  a  worthless  scamp  that  I  turned  out  of  doors  says, 
but  you  won't  believe  me.  Good  God !"  he  cried,  suddenly, 
throwing  himself  heavily  into  a  chair,  and  bursting  into  tears, 
"  how  I've  been  deceived  in  you,  Maud  !" 

Oh,  what  should  she  do  ?  poor  Maud  asked  herself.  He  was 
out  of  his  head,  he  was  going  to  be  dangerously  ill,  and  what 
should  she  do  ?  She  dared  not  leave  him  alone,  and  there  was 
nobody  whom  she  could  call  upon  for  help.  And  even  if  she 
had  been  on  friendly  terms  with  Mrs.  Jackson,  Baretta  would 
undoubtedly  have  resented  the  intrusion  of  a  stranger.  All 
that  was  left  to  her  was  to  try  in  some  way  to  quiet  him.  "  I 
guess  you'll  be  more  comfortable  if  you  lay  down  on  the  bed, 
Frank,"  she  said,  soothingly.  "  I  ain't  deceiving  you,  dear,  and 
I  know  you  don't  mean  that.  You've  been  working  too  hard, 
or  sitting  up  late  or  something." 

"  I'm  as  well  as  you  are,"  Baretta  said,  looking  up  angrily. 

"  Well,  there's  a  difference  between  being  tired  and  being 
sick,  and  I  guess  you're  only  tired.  You  lay  down,  anyway." 

Baretta  staggered  to  his  feet  and  drew  one  hand  slowly  across 
his  forehead.  "  It  aches  like  the  very  devil,"  he  said.  "  What 
was  it  I  was  talking  about,  anyway  ?  It's  good  of  you,  Maud — 
I  love  you  more  than  ever.  You'd  think  I  loved  you  if  you 
knew  what  had  happened — and  all  because  of  that.  Do  you 
know,  Maud,"  he  went  on  with  a  strange  laugh,  "  I  almost  hit 
him  with  that  paper-knife.  It  was  a  close  call  for  him.  No,  I 
won't  lie  down — let  me  alone !  I  tell  you  I  won't !  You're 

317 


mighty    good    to   me,  though,    Maud;    I'll    do    anything    for 
you." 

"  Yes,  dear,  but  just  lay  down  a  minute  to  rest  your  head." 
"  Well,  you  give  me  a  kiss  and  I  will.  Ah  !"  sighed  Baretta 
as  he  fell  back  on  the  pillow.  "  You're  the  only  friend  I  have 
in  the  world,  Maud ;  and  I'm  going  to  marry  you — don't  you 
forget  that.  But  I'll  have  my  revenge  on  her  along  with  the 
rest  of  them." 

"  Yes,  dear."  Maud  turned  away  to  hide  the  tears  that  were 
running  down  her  face,  the  while  she  stroked  his  forehead 
gently,  in  the  hope  of  quieting  him.  This  was  the  worst  blow 
of  all.  It  must  be  something  serious  when  he  was  out  of  his 
head.  He  had  always  talked  a  good  deal  about  his  enemies ; 
but  this  was  mere  incoherence — about  throwing  knives  and  re- 
venge upon  "  her."  Why  should  he  wish  to  be  revenged  upon 
Miss  Lawrence,  of  all  people,  whom  he  had  always  admired  so 
much,  and  of  whom  even  yet  Maud  could  not  help  feeling  bit- 
terly jealous  ?  Oh,  it  must  be  that  he  did  not  know  at  all  what 
he  was  saying !  Maud  kept  on  stroking  his  forehead,  while  he 
muttered  vague  imprecations,  so  indistinctly  that  she  could  not 
understand  what  he  said.  And  then,  after  one  or  two  convulsive 
tremours,  he  was  silent,  lying  staring  at  the  ceiling,  apparently 
oblivious  of  her  presence.  She  was  very  much  frightened ;  he 
had  such  a  ghastly  look ;  his  upturned  face  was  like  the  face 
of  one  dead.  But  she  would  not  leave  him  while  her  presence 
seemed  to  soothe  him  ;  she  felt  that  it  was  wiser  to  stay  than  to 
hurry  away  after  a  doctor.  He  reached  out  after  a  time  and 
took  her  free  hand  in  his ;  and  thus  presently  he  fell  asleep. 

Maud  arose,  withdrawing  her  hand  gently,  so  as  not  to  wake 
him,  and  tiptoed  to  the  door.  A  clock  in  the  dim  silence  be- 
low suddenly  struck  the  hour.  Maud  heard  it  with  a  start. 
Ten  o'clock !  and  what  could  she  do  as  late  as  this  ?  She  could 
not  rouse  him  and  send  him  away ;  she  could  not  stay  alone 
watching  him.  She  peered  over  the  rail  of  the  landing  and 
saw  that  an  oil -lamp  was  still  burning  in  the  entry  below. 
Then  she  crept  down-stairs  and  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  un- 
tidy room  which  Mrs.  Jackson  called  her  parlour. 

"  Hullo !"  Mr.  Jackson  said,  coming  to  the  door  in  his  shirt- 

318 


sleeves.  "  What's  the  row  ?  You  look  as  if  you'd  seen  a 
ghost."  He  took  her  hand  in  his  and  squeezed  it  with  the 
amiable  intention  of  reassuring  her. 

"  I  want  to  see  Mrs.  Jackson,"  said  Maud,  snatching  her  hand 
away. 

"  Well,  you  can't,"  came  the  voice  of  that  worthy  woman  from 
within.  "  I'm  jest  beat  out,  and  ready  to  go  to  bed,  and  nothin' 
on  but  a  wrapper." 

"  I  tell  you  I  must  speak  to  you  !"  cried  Maud,  desperately. 
Then  she  burst  into  tears.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Jackson !"  she  cried, 
"  won't  you  go  for  a  doctor,  or  something  ?  Mr.  Baretta's  dread- 
fully sick.  He  was  out  of  his  head  when  he  came,  and  I've  just 
made  him  lay  down  and  got  him  off  to  sleep.  Oh,  I  must  have 
a  doctor — I'm  scared  to  death." 

"  Why,  of  course  I'll  go,"  Mr.  Jackson  said.  "  Don't  you 
cry."  He  was  not  a  bad  man  in  his  way,  in  spite  of  his  in- 
clination towards  unwelcome  gallantries,  and  he  patted  Maud 
reassuringly  on  the  shoulder  as  he  spoke.  It  was  unfortunate, 
however — Mr.  Jackson's  intentions  being  in  this  case  quite  inno- 
cent— that  Mrs.  Jackson  should  at  this  very  moment  come  to 
the  door. 

"  You  mis'ble  hussy !"  she  shrieked,  visiting  her  wrath  upon 
the  victim  of  her  husband's  affectionate  disposition,  and  not  upon 
the  offender.  "  I'll  teach  yer  to  play  yer  tricks  !  Yah  !"  With 
a  sudden  snarl  like  a  cat,  the  angry  woman  threw  herself,  both 
claws  extended,  upon  Maud.  But  Mr.  Jackson,  who  had  seen 
her  in  such  humours  before — when  the  bottle  of  gin  which  she 
kept  in  a  cupboard  had  been  rather  rapidly  lowered,  such  being 
this  virtuous  woman's  one  failing — grasped  her  wrists  so  quick- 
ly that  the  object  of  the  assault,  which  was  to  injure  the  beauty 
of  a  suspected  rival,  was  not  attained  in  this  case. 

"  Just  go  back  up-stairs,"  said  Mr.  Jackson,  "  and  I'll  get  the 
doctor  for  you  in  a  few  minutes.  She  has  these  tantrums  about 
once  in  so  often.  Don't  you  mind  her,"  he  added,  taking  a 
firmer  hold,  and  raising  his  wife's  arms  to  such  a  height  that  her 
nails  could  not  be  used  as  weapons  upon  him  ;  "  she'll  forget 
all  about  it  by  morning."  He  thrust  her  back,  still  struggling, 
then  closed  and  locked  the  door. 

319 


"  What's  the  trouble  ?"  asked  some  one  coming  down  the 
stairs.  Maud  turned  with  a  quick  cry.  It  was  Baretta  himself. 

"  Oh,  Frank !"  Maud  cried.     "  Go  back !" 

"  Hullo  !"  Mr.  Jackson  said.  "  She's  been  asking  me  to  go 
for  the  doctor  for  you." 

"  Doctor !  I  don't  want  any  doctor,"  Baretta  said,  sharply. 
"  How  did  I  come  to  be  lying  on  your  bed  ?"  he  added,  turning 
to  Maud.  "  And  what's  all  this  row,  anyway."  For  Mrs.  Jack- 
son was  vigorously  thumping  on  the  door  and  emitting  a  series 
of  piercing  screams. 

"  Only  one  of  her  tantrums,"  explained  Mr.  Jackson,  grinning. 
"  I  guess  I'd  better  tend  to  her  now.  She  needs  a  doctor  more 
than  him."  Mr.  Jackson  grinned  again,  leered  knowingly  at 
Maud,  then  unlocked  the  door  and  went  inside,  where  his  voice 
could  be  heard  in  expostulation  with  his  angry  spouse. 

"But  what's  all  the  row?"  repeated  Baretta,  impatiently. 
"  What  are  you  doing  down  here,  Maud  ?" 

"  I — I  came  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Jackson,  but  she's — well,  you  see 
what's  she  like.  But  you — are  you  better?  Oh,  you  hadn't 
ought  to  have  got  up !  And  you  have  your  hat  in  your  hand. 
You  don't  mean  to  go,  do  you  ?  Oh,  I  won't  let  you  go  !" 

"Won't  let  me  go?  What  nonsense  are  you  talking  now, 
Maud?  Why  was  I  lying  up  there  alone?  Was — was  anything 
the  matter  with  me  ?" 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Maud,  evasively,  "  you  seemed  feverish,  and 
— and  out  of  your  head — " 

"  Out  of  my  head  !" 

"  And  so  1  made  you  lie  down,  and  you  fell  asleep.  But  are 
you  sure  you  are  strong  enough  to  go  out,  Frank  ?"  Maud  asked 
anxiously.  "  You  still  look  very  pale,  and  if  anything  should 
happen — " 

"  Pooh  !  what  can  happen  ?  Oh,  well,  I  dare  say  I  may  look 
a  little  pale — I  have-had  a  good  deal  to  bother  me.  And  that's 
why  I  wasn't  quite  myself,  perhaps,  when  I  came.  But  I  know 
what  to  do  now  —  I'm  all  right,  and  you  needn't  worry.  I'll 
fight  to  the  last !"  he  cried.  "  And  you — will  you  stand  by  me 
whatever  happens  ?" 

"  Oh,  Frank !  you  know  that  without  the  asking."     She  threw 

320 


her  arms  about  his  neck  and  kissed  him  passionately.  "  You're 
sure  you  ain't  sick,  Frank  ?" 

"Yes,  yes  —  how  you  women  worry!  I  say,  Maud,  I  shall 
come  to-morrow — or  the  next  day — and  tell  you  all  about  it. 
Something's  going  to  happen,  but  if  you  stand  by  me — " 

"  Frank  !  Frank !  you  look  as  if  you  were  going  to  do  some- 
thing desperate." 

"  Nonsense  !  what  a  notion !  Only  they're  trying  to  cheat  me 
out  of  my  rights — to  say  that  I  am  not  Baron  Smolzow ;  think 
of  that,  Maud  !  Would  you  mind  if  I  were  not  ?" 

"  Mind  !  Oh,  I  think  you  would  be  happier  to  give  up  every- 
thing, and — and — " 

"  And  marry  you,  Maud,"  JBaretta  said,  kissing  her.  "  Well, 
that's  what  I'm  going  to  do.  "  Suppose  I  should  come  to- 
morrow and  say  '  Come  off  with  me  now,  and  we'll  leave  this 
place  forever — '  what  would  you  do  ?" 

"  Do  ?    Why,  go  with  you  of  course  !   But  if  I  am  not  here — " 

"  Well,  you  must  stay  here.  Oh,  you  can  manage  that — what's 
the  difference  for  only  a  day  or  two  ?  And — and  don't  you  go 
to  the  store,  either.  Have  you  got  any  money  ?  Here's  some — 
oh,  take  it,  it's  only  ten  dollars — and  you  may  want  to  buy  some 
things.  Take  it,  I  say  !  We're  going  to  be  married  right  off, 
and  what's  the  difference?  Now  you  wait,  Maud,  till  you  hear 
from  me.  Good-bye."  Again  he  held  her  closely  in  his  arms, 
and  their  lips  met.  "  Oh,  Maud  !"  he  cried  with  a  strange 
choking  sob,  "  if  anything  should  happen,  remember  it  was  you 
I  loved  at  the  last."  He  strained  her  wildly  to  his  bosom;  then 
he  suddenly  flung  open  the  door  and  rushed  out  into  the 
darkness. 

"  Frank  !  Frank  !"  called  Maud.  But  he  did  not  hear  her ;  or 
if  he  did  he  made  no  response.  The  sound  of  his  hurrying 
footsteps  grew  fainter  and  fainter  as  the  girl  stood  listening  by 
the  open  door.  Presently  she  closed  it  with,  a  shiver  and  glided 
softly  up-stairs.  . 

Her  mind  was  full  of  apprehension — her  heart  throbbed  with 
a  great  dread — as  she  sat  alone  in  her  room  and  recalled  all  that 
Frank  had  said.  What  was  the  terrible  thing  that  had  hap- 
pened to  him  ?  and  why  had  he  come  to  her  looking  so  wild 

x  321 


and  haggard,  and  talking  so  strangely,  quite  out  of  his  head  ? 
There  was  a  great  deal  which  she  could  not  understand.  She 
could  not  help  being  worried.  She  felt  sure  that  something 
very  serious  was  impending.  He  loved  her — she  no  longer 
had  any  doubt  of  that ;  he  had  told  her  to  remember  that  he 
loved  her  at.  the  last.  But  the  phrase  frightened  her.  Why 
should  there  be  any  last,  when  they  were  about  to  be  married 
and  never  be  separated  again  ?  And  it  was  so  strange  to  hear 
him  talk  about  revenging  himself  upon  "  her."  He  could  only 
mean  Miss  Lawrence  by  "  her  " — Miss  Lawrence,  whom  she  was 
sure  he  had  always  worshipped,  and  of  whom  she  could  not  yet  help 
being  jealous.  There  was  something  very  strange  about  it  all ; 
and  she,  who  loved  him  best  of  any  one  in  the  world,  was  not  to 
be  told.  It  was  cruel  to  keep  her  in  suspense.  Maud  had  only 
the  vaguest  idea  of  the  means  by  which  Baretta  had  become 
Baron  Smolzow,  or  perhaps  his  ravings  would  have  been  more 
intelligible  to  her.  She  found  it  natural  enough  to  think  of  him 
as  a  swell.  She  had  always  looked  upon  him  as  her  superior ; 
as  far  back  as  the  days  of  his  first  coming  to  Arragon  Street  he 
had  seemed  to  her  to  be,  in  spite  of  his  poverty,  far  more  "  gen- 
teel "  than  any  other  young  man  she  had  ever  known.  To  be 
genteel  was  in  Maud's  opinion  the  next  best  thing  to  being  a 
swell.  It  was  the  goal  which  she  hoped  to  attain  when  she 
married  Baretta.  He  was  a  real  gentleman,  at  any  rate,  and  she 
felt  that  she  knew  how  to  behave  like  a  real  lady.  The  girls  at 
Brown's,  like  the  girls  in  Arragon  Street,  regarded  her  as  "  stuck- 
up,"  which  was  one  characteristic  of  real  ladies.  She  did  not  care 
whether  Baretta  was  the  Baron  Smolzow  or  not,  because  she  was 
so  very  sure  that  they  would  be  genteel.  She  had  told  him  that 
he  would  be  happier  if  ho  gave  it  all  up — a  piece  of  advice 
which  was  perhaps  founded  upon  her  perception  of  her  own  un- 
fitness  to  be  the  wife  of  so  exalted  a  person  as  a  baron,  whose 
position  was  quite  beyond  that  of  gentility.  She  was  not  so 
ignorant  as  to  confuse  this  obvious  distinction.  She  was  famil- 
iar with  lords  and  ladies  through  the  novels  which  she  had  read, 
and  she  knew  that  she  would  feel  very  much  out  of  place  if  ever 
she  were  introduced  to  their  society.  She  thought  that  a  baron 
must  be  a  lord,  but  she  was  not  quite  sure.  In  most  of  the 

322 


novels  the  barons  were  foreigners,  and  also,  unfortunately,  high- 
ly disreputable  persons;  which  was  an  added  reason  why  she 
was  just  as  well  satisfied  that  Frank  should  not  be  one.  Oh  yes 
— she  was  glad  to  know  that  he  was  angry  with  all  those  people 
who  had  taken  him  away  from  her !  and  yet  she  wished  that  he 
had  not  talked  about  revenge,  and  throwing  knives  at  people. 
She  knew  that  he  had  a  furious  temper,  and  she  recalled  various 
cases  where  men  with  furious  tempers  had  been  led  to  all  sorts 
of  dreadful  things — even  to  committing  murder.  Who  could 
tell  what  Frank  might  do  when  he  was  in  that  state — not  him- 
self, but  altogether  out  of  his  head  ?  For  a  long  time  that  night 
she  lay  awake.  It  had  begun  to  rain,  and  the  heavy  drops 
driving  against  the  windows  made  her  nervous.  Oh,  where  had 
he  gone  ?  and  what  did  he  intend  to  do  ?  Her  anxieties  came 
back  to  her  with  redoubled  force,  driving  away  all  those  harm- 
less fancies  about  being  genteel,  and  about  lords  and  barons. 
Thus  poor  Maud  tossed  and  turned  on  a  restless  pillow,  and  shed 
many  a  bitter  tear. 

It  was  daylight  before  she  fell  asleep,  so  that  she  awoke  late 
in  the  forenoon.  The  rain  had  ceased  and  the  sun  was  shining 
brightly  in  at  the  window.  How  late  it  must  be  !  was  her  first 
thought.  She  jumped  out  of  bed,  and  ran  hastily  across  the 
room  to  look  at  her  alarm-clock,  which  she  had  forgotten  to 
wind  the  night  before.  It  was  still  ticking  feebly.  Half-past 
ten  !  and  what  would  they  say  at  the  store  ?  Then  she  recalled 
her  promise  to  Baretta  that  she  would  give  up  the  store.  Under 
ordinary  circumstances  she  would  have  welcomed  the  opportu- 
nity, but  now  she  felt  that  something  to  do  would  be  a  welcome 
distraction.  However,  let  it  be  as  he  said ;  he  must  have  his 
reasons,  and  he  would  doubtless  explain  them  to  her  in  good 
time.  But  she  wished  that  he  had  not  rushed  away  telling  her 
half  the  story,  which  was  so  much  worse  than  telling  her  noth- 
ing at  all.  Why  should  he  want  her  to  wait  for  him,  to  be  ready 
to  go  away  with  him  at  any  moment  ?  What  was  he  about  to 
do  ?  or  what  had  he  done  ?  It  was  terrible  to  be  left  thus  a 
prey  to  vague  anxieties. 

"  Seems  to  me  you're  pretty  late,"  said  Mrs.  Jackson,  when 
Maud  went  down-stairs.  She  poked  her  head  out  of  the  par- 

323 


lour  door  and  made  this  observation.  "  When  are  you  going 
to  move  out  ?" 

"  I  think  I  shall  stay  another  week,"  said  Maud.  "  I  ain't 
anxious  to,  but  we're  to  be  married  so  soon  that  Mr.  Baretta 
thinks  I'd  better." 

"  Well,  I  like  that !"  Mrs.  Jackson  exclaimed,  coming  out  into 
the  entry,  and  regarding  her  lodger  with  arms  defiantly  akimbo. 
"  An'  you  makin'  up  to  my  man  the  way  you  do !" 

"  It's  a  lie!  He  makes  up  to  me.  But  I  won't  endure  it.  I 
hate  him !  And  I'm  glad  to  get  out  of  your  house,  and  I'd  go 
this  moment  if  I  could.  But  I  promised  Frank  to  stay,  and  I 
will  stay.  I  guess  you  won't  try  to  put  me  out." 

"  Oh,  you're  a  high-flyer  and  no  mistake  !"  Mrs.  Jackson  said, 
sarcastically.  "  Comin'  here  with  your  airs,  and  too  good  to  say 
a  word  to  any  one.  Maud  Vivian !  do  you  s'pose  I  didn't  know 
all  the  time  you  was  lyin'  to  me  ?  Such  goin's-on  in  a  decent 
woman's  house — and  furriners  comin'  and  askin'  after  ye,  and  a 
great  dirty  Irishman  calling  you  his  girl.  What  does  it  all  mean, 
I'd  like  to  know  ?  And  so  you'll  stay,  will  you  ?  Well,  the  rent's 
gone  up.  It's  two  dollars  I  want,  and  you  can  just  pay  over  the 
money  now  or  it's  in  the  street  you'll  be." 

"  Two  dollars !  here's  your  old  two  dollars!"  said  Maud,  taking 
out  one  of  the  bills  which  Baretta  had  given  her. 

"Oh,  you're  rollin'  in  money,  ain't  you?  Well,  out  of  my 
house  you  go  a  week  from  to-day,  or  it'll  be  four  dollars.  I  told 
you  when  you  come  that  I  wouldn't  have  anything  to  do  with 
any  one  but  a  decent  girl." 

"  How  dare  you  talk  to  me  like  that !"  Maud  flashed  out  an- 
grily. "  I  told  you  my  father  had  treated  me  badly,  and  you 
blame  me  because  he  found  me  out  and  made  a  row.  Decent  ? 
I  guess  I'm  as  decent  as  a  woman  that  gets  drunk."  And  with 
this  parting  shot  Maud  hurried  away. 

Mrs.  Jackson  stood  for  a  moment  quite  dazed  by  this  attack  ; 
then  she  went  back  into  her  parlour,  slamming  the  door  furi- 
ously. "  The  jade  !"  she  muttered.  She  was  naturally  a  kind- 
hearted  woman,  except  during  her  "spells,"  or  when  she  was 
recovering  from  the  effects  of  one,  and  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances she  would  have  treated  Maud  with  more  consideration. 

324  v 


Now  she  was  wishing  that  she  had  not  taken  the  two  dollars,  so 
that  she  might  have  had  the  pleasure  of  dumping  all  of  poor 
Maud's  scanty  belongings  in  the  street.  "  She'll  go  next  week, 
sure,"  Mrs.  Jackson  said,  rattling  angrily  at  the  air-tight  stove 
which  she  was  replenishing  with  coals.  "  I  wouldn't  have  her 
for  forty  dollars." 

Maud,  for  her  part,  was  wishing  that  Frank  had  not  made  her 
promise  to  stay.  How  she  hated  the  woman,  who  treated  her 
so  meanly,  and  all  for  nothing  at  all,  except  that  she  was  jealous 
of  her  worthless  husband  !  "As  if  I'd  have  anything  to  do  .with 
the  likes  of  him !"  Maud  said  to  herself.  However,  she  soon 
gave  over  thinking  about  Mrs.  Jackson  in  her  absorption  in  more 
important  matters.  She  took  a  car  down-town — she  felt  rich 
with  ten  dollars  in  her  shabby  little  pufse — and  went  to  the  store 
to  tell  them  that  she  was  going  to  leave. 

"  Oh,  you'll  catch  it!"  Dolly  said,  grinning  amiably,  when  Maud 
walked  in.  "  Foxy's  down  on  you  now,  because  you  won't  have 
nothing  to  say  to  him." 

"  Well,  let  him  be  ;  I'm  going  to  leave,  anyway.  I'm  going 
to  be  married,"  Maud  added,  with  a  touch  of  conscious  pride. 

"Married?  I  didn't  think  you  was  such  a  big  fool.  Oh  yes, 
we  have  some  that  comes  cheaper,"  she  said,  condescendingly, 
turning  to  a  customer. 

But  Mr.  Thomas  B.  Fox  didn't  seem  to1  care  in  the  least  whether 
Brown's  lost  the  services  of  Miss  Vivian  or  not.  He  heard  her 
story  with  an  indifferent  air.  "  You  can  come  round  and  get 
half  a  week's  pay  on  Saturday,"  he  said,  gruffly.  "  We  don't 
like  to  have  girls  leave  us  in  this  sort  of  way — I  presume  they'd 
make  a  row  if  we  bounced  them  without  notice.  But  I  saw 
some  time  ago  you  wouldn't  do,  so  it's  just  as  well." 

"  Wouldn't  do  ?"  cried  Maud,  glad  to  be  released,  and  yet  in- 
dignant at  this  aspersion  upon  her  capacity.  "  I  guess  I've 
worked  hard  enough." 

"  Oh,  you've  worked  hard  enough,"  said  Mr.  Fox,  with  a  sneer. 
"  I  suppose  you've  found  some  one  now  who  won't  let  you 
work." 

"  Yes  !"  Maud  said,  with  an  angry  look.  "  The  man  I'm  going 
to  marry.  And  now  that  I'm  going,  I'll  tell  you  that  you  are  a 

325 


— a  dirty  loafer !"  cried  Maud,  relapsing  into  the  dialect  of  Ar- 
ragon  Street.  And  then  she  rushed  away  from  Mr.  Fox  and 
Brown's  like  a  miniature  whirlwind.  They  could  keep  their 
miserable  two  dollars  !  she  would  never  go  back  there  any  more. 

But  it  was  ill  waiting  for  Frank  with  nothing  to  do,  nothing 
to  occupy  her  thoughts.  She  kept  very  closely  to  that  dingy 
room,  in  anxious  expectation  of  the  coming  of  her  lover  to  take 
her  away  forever.  Her  mind  was  full  of  miserable  forebodings. 
She  dwelt  upon  his  random  words,  but  she  could  not  under- 
stand them  at  all ;  she  had  only  a  conviction  that  something 
was  wrong,  that  a  crisis  was  at  hand  for  both.  Oh,  why  did 
not  Frank  come  to  explain  ?  What  could  it  be  that  was  keep- 
ing him  away  so  long  ?  On  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  she 
could  stand  it  no  longer,*  but  walked  over  to  Baretta's  rooms  in 
Huntington  Avenue  to  find  some  answer  to  her  questions.  It 
must  be  that  he  was  really  ill — out  of  his  head  again,  perhaps, 
with  no  one  by  to  take  care  of  him.  Her  heart  was  beating 
violently  when  she  rang  the  bell. 

"  Lor',  miss,"  said  the  man  who  came  to  the  door,  "  the  Baron 
ain't  been  here  these  two  days.  He  packed  up  and  went  off 
without  telling  a  blessed  soul  where  he  was  goin'.  /  don't  know 
— I  wish  I  did,"  he  added,  dryly. 

326 


CHAPTER  XXXII 
A   DESPERATE    HOPE 

BAKETTA  had  told  his  father  that  he  was  sick  of  acting  a  lie, 
and  had  defied  him  to  do  his  worst ;  and  yet  when  the  blow 
came  it  completely  overwhelmed  him.  The  reality  too  often 
differs  widely  from  the  anticipation.  It  seemed  an  easy  thing 
to  do  to  resolve  to  give  up  his  ambitions,  to  become  a  nobody 
again  and  marry  Maud ;  but  when  he  no  longer  had  any  choice 
he  felt  that  he  had  chosen  ill.  What  a  fool  he  had  been !  and 
all  because  a  girl  had  cried  and  fainted  in  his  arms.  He  chose 
to  attribute  his  defiance  of  his  father  wholly  to  Maud,  although 
even  before  she  had  come  back  to  remind  him  of  the  past  his 
position  had  grown  extremely  irksome.  His  father's  presence 
had  made  all  the  difference  in  the  world.  What  would  the  win- 
ning of  Miss  Lawrence  do  to  rid  him  of  that?  And  there  had 
been  so  many  humiliajtions,  so  many  petty  anxieties  !  "  Nought's 
had,  all's  spent,  when  our  desire  is  got  without  content,"  he  might 
have  said,  had  he  been  more  familiar  with  the  greatest  of  dram- 
atists. 

When  Yates  left  him,  Baretta  buried  his  face  in  his  hands 
and  groaned  aloud.  Yes — the  blow  had  fallen,  and  he  was  be- 
ginning to  realize  how  heavy  it  would  be.  The  man  who  hated 
him  most,  who  had  been  against  him  from  the  first,  was  the  first 
to  know  the  truth ;  and  he  had  come  to  threaten  him,  and  no 
doubt  to  exult  over  him.  It  was  some  satisfaction  to  recall  that 
he  had  told  him  nothing,  that  he  had  defied  him  to  do  his  worst. 
And  now  how  was  he  to  have  his  revenge  ?  It  was  against  Yates 
that  his  anger  burned  hottest.  His  father  seemed  to  be  beyond 
his  reach ;  but  Yates  was  where  he  could  reach  him  and  strike 

327 


him  down.  And  he  would  do  it;  he  would  get  even  with  him 
in  some  way.  He  could  not  think  of  a  way  just  yet,  but  that 
would  come  later.  He  did  not  doubt  that  Yates  was  concerned 
in  the  ruin  which  was  preparing  for  him.  How  else  would  he 
have  known  about  it?  Hypocritical  expressions  of  regret  did  not 
deceive  him  in  the  least ;  the  fellow  had  shown  himself  in  his 
true  colours  when  he  called  him  a  cad  and  a  cur.  Baretta's 
wrath  blazed  up  anew  as  he  remembered  these  epithets.  And 
now  Yates  would  go  to  Miss  Lawrence  and  tell  her  all,  exulting 
over  the  rival  whom  he  hated.  There  was  no  suspicion  in  his 
mind  that  a  gentleman  would  be  incapable  of  this ;  it  was  pre- 
cisely what  he  would  have  done  himself  under  similar  circum- 
stances. And  she  would  believe  it  —  oh  yes,  he  was  sure  of 
that.  She  was  not  like  Maud,  who  had  clung  to  him  in  spite  of 
everything.  He  would  make  it  up  to  Maud — the  only  friend 
he  had  in  the  world.  And  yet  he  could  not  help  remembering 
that  but  for  her  his  secret  might  still  have  been  safe.  What  a 
fool  he  had  been !  and  the  only  thing  left  was  to  make  the  best 
of  his  folly. 

He  rose  after  a  time  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
room,  determined  in  one  way  or  another  to  come  to  a  clearer 
understanding  of  the  situation,  to  see  if  there  were  not  yet  some 
chance  of  saving  himself.  This  dull  mechanic  exercise  might 
perhaps  help  him  to  think.  But  what  was  there  that  he  could 
do  ?  He  was  utterly  in  the  dark  as  to  theumanner  in  which  the 
story  had  reached  Yates.  It  was  to  come  out  in  a  newspaper, 
Yates  had  said,  and  of  course  he  himself  had  gone  to  the  editor 
with  it.  That  was  just  what  a  jealous  rival  would  be  sure  to  do. 
He  remembered  now  that  he  once  or  twice  mentioned  Yates  to 
his  father,  and  had  even  angrily  told  him  that  he  ought  to  go  to 
Yates  with  his  revelations.  But  of  course  it  was  impossible 
that  his  father  could  have  done  this.  He  knew  nothing  of  the 
young  man,  and  had  probably  forgotten  the  name.  Everything, 
however,  was  to  come  out  in  the  papers ;  that  was  undoubtedly 
true ;  the  papers  would  publish  eagerly  a  sensation  so  fertile  as 
this.  It  was  too  late  to  do  anything  now.  But  was  it  too  late  ? 
If  he  only  knew  what  paper  it  was.  The  editor  was  an  honour- 
able man,  Yates  had  said.  The  Mail — Binney  !  why  hadn't  he 

328 


thought  of  this  obvious  answer  to  his  question  before?  It  was 
the  Mail  for  which  Yates  had  written,  and  Binney  was  a  friend 
of  his.  He  saw  the  whole  plot  now.  They  had  talked  it  all 
over  at  the  club,  and  now  Yates  was  writing  the  sensational  arti- 
cle that  must  blast  his  career  forever.  Oh,  the  plot  was  only 
too  plain  !  How  dull  he  must  have  been  not  to  suspect  it  at 
once !  His  course  was  clear  enough.  He  would  go  to  Binney 
and  deny  the  whole  outrageous  accusation.  It  was  a  desperate 
hope,  but  it  was  the  only  one  he  had  left,  and  he  must  save  him- 
self in  some  way.  He  had  defied  his  father  to  do  his  worst,  and 
he  had  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  when  once  he  had  aban- 
doned all  his  aspirations  and  had  married  Maud  and  gone  away 
somewhere,  to  a  place  where  no  one  knew  him,  he  would  not 
care  what  happened.  But  now  that  everything  was  slipping 
away  from  him,  he  realized  how  bitter  the  change  would  be. 
And  Miss  Lawrence  would  despise  him  !  That  was  worst  of  all. 
Was  it  indeed  she  that  he  loved,  or  only  Maud  ? 

He  remembered  that  Mr.  Binney  did  not  like  to  see  callers  in 
the  evening,  but  his  errand  was  too  important  to  be  postponed. 
Delay  might  be  fatal ;  perhaps  the  story  was  already  prepared 
for  the  consumption  of  an  avid  public.  Somewhat  to  his  sur- 
prise, he  was  admitted  to  the  inner  room  at  once. 

"  I  was  going  to  send  one  of  our  young  men  up  to  see  you," 
said  Mr.  Binney,  nodding  rather  curtly  as  Baretta  entered. 

"It  —  it  was  something  important?"  stammered  the  young 
man,  although  he  knew  very  well  what  it  was. 

The  editor  fumbled  among  the  papers  on  his  desk  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  drew  out  two  long  printed  slips.  "  If  you'll  step 
into  the  other  room  and  read  that,  Mr.  Baretta,"  he  said,  "  you 
will  understand  why  I  was  going  to  send  to  you."  He  nodded 
again  and  began  to  write  very  hastily ;  then  he  looked  up  and 
added,  "  Of  course  you  understand  that  the  Mail  could  not 
print  such  a  story  if  it  were  not  true,  and — and  I  have  no  doubt 
you  will  be  able  to  deny  it  effectively." 

"  I  know  quite  well  what  it  is,"  said  Baretta,  pausing  at  the 
doorway  with  the  slips  in  his  hand.  "  And  it's  a  lie — every 
word  of  it !"  he  cried,  vehemently. 

"  Well,  well!"  Mr.  Binney  said,  nervously,  "  you'd  better  read 

329 


it  through,  after  all.  Our  reporters  are  very  careful ;  the  Mail 
isn't  like  the  Banner,  you  know.  And  really,  Mr.  Baretta,  it's 
rather  extraordinary  that  you  should  deny  a  matter  like  that  be- 
fore you  have  read  our  story.  I  can't  help  thinking  that  your 
course  only  adds  to  the  gravity  of  the  suspicion." 

"  Oh,  if  you've  made  up  your  mind  that  it's  true !"  Baretta 
exclaimed,  bitterly.  "  Why  shouldn't  I  know  what  the  story  is  ? 
Do  you  think  I'm  a  fool  ?  I  guess  I'm  pretty  well  acquainted 
with  your  reporter,  Mr.  Binney,  though  I  never  heard  you  call 
him  that  before." 

"  Really,  Mr.  Baretta,  I  must  decline — " 

"  Baron  Smolzow,  sir — I'll  stick  to  the  title  as  long  as  it's 
mine,  anyway  !"  Baretta  cried.  "  Perhaps  if  you  knew  his  mo- 
tives you'd  be  less  eager  to  believe  him.  Why,  I  tell  you  he 
hates  me — that  he  has  always  tried  to  down  me.  You  yourself 
made  him  jealous  by  printing  my  work  instead  of  his.  But  it's 
all  a  damned  plot  —  I  can  prove  that  it's  a  plot.  Send  for 
Yates  and  let  me  face  him,  and  I'll  show  you.  And  I  guess  my 
word's  as  good  as  his,"  said  Baretta,  with  a  strange  laugh  in 
which  there  was  little  merriment. 

The  editor  sat  back  in  his  chair  and  stared  at  him.  "  I  must 
beg  you  to  be  a  little  more — more  temperate  in  your  remarks," 
he  said  at  last,  coldly.  "I  don't  understand  your  allusion  to 
Mr.  Yates.  He  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  article 
which  you  have  in  your  hand — and  which  I  should  advise  you 
to  read  before  you  say  anything  further." 

"  Oh,  that's  his  damned  malice — that's  the  kind  of  sneaking 
cur  he  is  !  I — I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Binney,"  he  added,  with 
an  obvious  effort  to  control  himself,  "  but  the  whole  thing  is 
such  a  diabolical  trap.  Why,  sir,  Yates  himself  came  to  me 
and  threatened  me  with  exposure — I  mean,  with  these  silly  lies 
— unless  I  yielded  to  his  threats  and  gave  up — "  Here  he  looked 
at  the  slips,  and  saw  on  the  first  of  them,  "  Is  he  Baron  Smol- 
zow ?"  set  forth  in  large  type.  "  I'll  read  what  it  says  here, 
Mr.  Binney,"  Baretta  said,  "  but  of  course  you  see  now  how  I 
knew  exactly  what  it  was.  '  I  knew  Yates  would  come  to 
you." 

But  he  sat  for  a  long  time  staring  at  these  fatal  bits  of  paper 

330 


and  making  no  sense  at  all  out  of  the  printed  words,  which, 
danced  before  his  eyes  and  seemed  to  dazzle  them.  He  was 
thinking  of  that  evening  when  Binney  had  read  to  him  the 
despatch  from  Vienna  about  Herr  Paul  Baretta-Smolzow,  and 
how  suddenly  and  irresistibly  temptation  had  come  upon  him. 
And  he  had  done  it  all  for  her,  who  did  not  care  what  became 
of  him,  and  whom  he  had  never  had  any  hope  of  winning!  It 
was  maddening  to  think  that  the  defeat  of  all  his  aspirations 
was  complete,  that  there  was  no  hope  of  regaining  what  he  had 
lost.  He  was  quite  sure  that  no  one  would  believe  his  bare 
denial,  and  what  else  had  he  to  offer  ?  He  forced  himself  at 
last  to  read  the  story  through.  It  was  very  direct — very  con- 
vincing. His  father  had  explained  everything  only  too  clearly. 
He  had  accounted  for  his  possession  of  Paul  Baretta's  papers. 
The  cousin  of  the  late  baron  had  died  in  New  York  years  ago, 
and  Emil,  whom  he  had  befriended  and  who  was  with  him  at 
the  last,  had  stolen  them  from  him.  'Emil  confessed  his  own 
misdeeds  with  the  utmost  cynicism.  He  had  always  had  in 
mind  the  possible  advantage  of  having  possession  of  such  docu- 
ments, although  it  was  not  until  he  had  seen  in  the  papers  an 
account  of  his  son's  pretensions  that  he  had  decided  to  make 
use  of  them.  He  had  taken  Paul  Baretta's  name  for  various 
reasons,  which  he  did  not  specify  ;  one  could  imagine  that  they 
were  not  very  creditable  to  him.  It  was  as  Paul  Baretta  that 
he  had  married  a  factory-girl,  with  whom  he  had  soon  quarrelled, 
and  who  very  speedily  drank  herself  to  death.  With  the  rest 
of  his  career  his  son  Avas  tolerably  familiar.  He  had  tried  to 
disassociate  himself  from  it  years  ago.  He  had  run  away  from 
the  guardianship  of  this  drunken  barber,  and  had  made  his  own 
way  in  the  world.  Then  ambition  had  led  him  to  his  ruin  ;  .the 
rest  of  the  narrative  was  only  too  familiar.  It  was  horrible  to 
see  it  set  down  here  so  remorselessly,  written  out  with  such 
convincing  minuteness. 

"  It's  all  a  lie,"  Baretta  said,  throwing  the  slips  on  Mr.  Bin- 
ney's  desk.  "  Don't  you  dare  to  print  it !" 

"  We  won't  talk  about  daring,  if  you  please,"  the  editor  said. 
"  If  you  can  convince  me  that  it  is  false,  that  will  be  sufficient. 
If  not—" 

331 


"  You'll  print  it,  will  you,  and  blast  my  whole  future  ?"  cried 
the  young  man,  angrily. 

"  A  story  that  is  false  cannot  hurt  you.  And  as  I  have  said, 
if  you  will  deny  it  in  any  effectual  way,  if  you  will  give  me  any 
reason  beyond  a  bare  assertion  for  suppressing  it,  I  shall  be 
only  too  glad  to  spare  you  annoyance.  Whether  you  do  so  or 
not,  I  shall  of  course  add  your  denial." 

"  It's  a  lie,  I  tell  you,  and  if  it  comes  out  in  the  Mail — " 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  take  the  trouble  to  threaten  me  with  a  libel 
suit,"  Mr.  Binney  interrupted.  "  I  quite  understand  that  you 
will  bring  one,  and  I  am  prepared  to  run  that  risk — especially  in 
view  of  the  attitude  which  you  are  taking,"  he  added.  He  took 
up  the  slips  and  glanced  them  over  in  a  mechanical  sort  of  way. 
"  There  is  another  thing,"  he  said,  "  and  that  is  this  story  about 
your — your  engagement  to — to  a  young  lady.  It  is  not  referred 
to  here — for  various  reasons.  Nevertheless,  it  is  an  additional 
reason  why  you  should  clear  yourself,  if  you  can.  Mr.  Lawrence 
is  one  of  our  foremost  citizens — " 

"  Mr.  Lawrence  !"  Baretta  exclaimed.  "  What  has  he  to  do 
with  it  ?  Oh,  I  understand  well  enough  now,"  he  added,  "  who 
it  is  that  has  been  concocting  this  precious  yarn.  You  needn't 
think  you  can  shield  him." 

"  You  are  labouring  under  some  extraordinary  delusion.  Mr. 
Lawrence  has  a  good  deal  to  do  with  it  if  you  are  engaged  to 
be  married  to  his  daughter." 

"  Me  !"  cried  Baretta.     "  Engaged  to  Miss  Lawrence  !" 

"  I  suppose  you  have  seen  the  announcement  in  the  Packet  ? 
But,  really,"  Mr.  Binney  went  on,  rather  irritably,  "  I  see  no  use 
in  prolonging  this  interview.  If  you  can  disprove  these  rather 
serious  charges  you  shall  have  every  opportunity.  Otherwise — 
well,  you  can't  expect  me  to  become  your  accomplice  in  deceiv- 
ing the  public.  That  isn't  a  pleasant  thing  to  say,  but  I  might 
as  well  be  frank  with  you.  It's  a  painful  situation,  Mr.  Baretta. 
Of  course  if  the  report  of  your — of  the  engagement  is  false — " 

"  But  it  is  true,"  said  Baretta,  eagerly.  He  saw  that  here  was 
a  possible  chance  to  save  himself,  and  his  situation  was  too  des- 
perate to  permit  him  to  be  over-scrupulous.  "  It  is  quite  true. 
I  am  to  marry  Miss  Lawrence.  And  I  warn  you,"  he  added, 

332 


"  of  the  consequences  of  publishing  slanderous  tales  about  me. 
I  am  able  to  defend  myself,  sir  ;  and  Mr.  Lawrence — " 

"We  will  have  no  threats,  if  you  please.  You  have  only  to 
satisfy  me  that  you  are  really  Baron  Smolzow,  that  the  story 
told  by  this  man  who  says  he  is  your  father  is  unworthy  of 
credence,  to  stop  the  whole  thing  right  here  and  now.  But 
nothing  else  can  stop  it — nothing.  I  advise  you  to  reflect  upon 
the  matter  calmly.  This  article  will  not  appear  until  the  day 
after  to-morrow.  Good-night." 

"  But,  Mr.  Binney— " 

"  I  am  too  busy  to  talk  any  further  on  the  subject  this  even- 
ing. Good-night."  And  the  editor  bent  over  his  desk  and  be- 
gan to  write  very  rapidly. 

"  I'll  have  my  revenge — I'll  pay  you  out  for  this !"  Baretta 
shouted.  "  You  will  rue  the  day  that  you  took  sides  with  my 
enemies  against  me  !"  Then  he  rushed  from  the  room,  bang- 
ing the  door  behind  him. 

He  would  get  the  better  of  them  all  yet.  This  was  what 
Baretta  was  saying  to  himself  as  he  hurried  along  the  street. 
The  night  was  cold  and  windy,  but  he  buttoned  his  coat  tightly 
about  him  and  strode  on.  Oh  yes — they  need  not  think  that 
he  would  tamely  submit !  Everything  was  at  stake,  and  he 
would  fight  to  the  last.  Binney  would  not  dare  to  print  this 
malicious  gossip  about  the  future  son-in-law  of  Sibley  Lawrence. 
It  was  very  clear  to  him  now  that  he  must  win  Mildred  if  he 
could.  Perhaps  she  had  already  seen  the  announcement  in  the 
Packet  to  which  Binney  had  referred.  It  would  annoy  her,  of 
course.  But  if  he  should  ask  her  to  make  it  true — what  then  ? 
It  was  at  least  a  possibility  worth  calculating  upon,  and  he  could 
not  disregard  any  possibility  now.  When  a  man  was  fighting 
for  his  life  he  must  use  any  weapon  that  he  could  find.  He 
knew  very  well  that  Mildred  did  not  love  him ;  but  she  might 
consent  to  marry  him,  if  she  knew  that  her  name  was  publicly 
connected  with  his.  He  had  a  vague  notion  that  what  he  in- 
tended doing  was  dishonourable.  Clearly,  however,  it  was  no 
time  to  indulge  in  mere  delicacy  of  feeling.  Everything  was  at 
stake,  he  told  himself  again.  Oh  yes — he  would  go  to  Miss 
Lawrence  ;  it  was  the  only  chance  left  to  him.  After  all,  a  title 

333 


was  a  title,  and  to  be  Baroness  Smolzow  was  a  prospect  that 
might  well  appeal  to  her  ambition.  She  had  been  kind  to  him 
of  late,  certainly ;  and  it  might  be  that  she  really  was  beginning 
to  care  for  him.  Why  should  she  not? — she  who  had  once 
actually  been  engaged  to  that  fellow  Yates.  There  was  no  rea- 
son why  a  woman  should  not  care  for  him.  Maud  worshipped 
the  very  ground  he  walked  on.  Poor  Maud  !  whom  he  was 
going  to  give  up  in  spite  of  his  protestations.  He  could  not 
fail  to  experience  a  pang  of  self-reproach  at  the  thought,  per- 
haps also  of  regret ;  he  was  very  fond  of  Maud,  who  loved  him 
as  no  one  else  did.  But,  surely,  if  she  understood  all,  she  would 
herself  be  ready  to  make  the  sacrifice.  Had  she  not  pleaded 
with  him  to  give  her  up,  when  he  had  defied  his  father,  and  had 
sworn  that  he  would  marry  her,  no  matter  what  befell  ?  Oh,  he 
had  been  a  fool !  He  had  been  his  own  worst  enemy  all  along ! 
Why  had  he  not  foreseen  how  unbearable  the  defeat  of  all  his 
aspirations  would  be — how  tragic  the  ruin  of  all  his  hopes  ? 

And  there  was  Yates  —  he  would  have  his  revenge  upon 
Yates.  It  was  he  who  had  planned  all  this,  who  had  taken  the 
story  to  Binney.  Why  should  he  believe  Binney's  denial? 
The  case  was  only  too  plain.  He  hurried  towards  Livingstone 
Place,  with  a  wild  hope  that  somehow  he  might  achieve  his 
purpose  then  and  there.  He  saw  a  light  in  Yates's  windows 
from  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  stood  staring  at  it,  muttering 
unintelligible  imprecations  and  shaking  his  fist.  If  only  he 
could  strike  him  dead,  so  quietly  and  quickly  that  no  one 
should  know,  that  no  wild  cry  should  betray  him  !  The  thought 
seemed  to  burn  like  fire  into  his  brain.  For  a  long  time  he 
watched  the  lighted  windows.  He  was  chilled  through  and 
through ;  he  shivered,  and  his  teeth  chattered,  but  he  was  hard- 
ly aware  of  it.  To  strike  Yates  dead,  and  let  no  one  know, 
and  thus  be  rid  of  this  malignant  enemy  forever !  He  laughed 
aloud — a  horrible  mocking  laugh — as  he  turned  away  and  hur- 
ried home. 

334 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 
BARETTA'S  HUMILIATION 

ALL  night  he  was  haunted  by  feverish  dreams — dreams  so  wild 
and  desperate  that  more  than  once  he  awoke  with  a  sudden  cry 
and  lay  trembling  in  the  darkness  with  a  hideous  foreboding  of 
evil.  He  was  constantly  pursuing  a  shadowy  figure  that  ever 
escaped  him  ;  when  he  reached  out  to  grasp  it  he  stumbled  and 
felt  himself  falling  into  a  dizzying  abyss.  Sometimes  there  was 
a  gleam  as  of  a  shining  blade  luring  him  on ;  and  then  the  air 
seemed  to  be  filled  with  fire  and  red  like  blood.  He  rose  at  last 
in  the  cold  and  dismal  dawn,  and  dressed  himself,  and  sat  for  a 
long  time  like  one  stupefied,  his  head  buried  in  his  arms,  which 
he  crossed  upon  the  desk  before  him.  It  grew  lighter,  and  the 
sounds  in  the  street  became  more  frequent ;  but  still  he  sat  un- 
heeding. 

"Good  Gawd,  y'r  'ighness  !  what's  the  matter?"  It  was  the 
voice  of  the  janitor,  who,  after  rattling  vainly  at  the  door,  had 
opened  it  with  his  key  and  entered.  "  Is  y'r  'ighness  ill  ?"  he 
added,  as  Baretta  lifted  his  head  and  gazed  at  him  vacuously. 

"  I — I  couldn't  sleep,"  said  Baretta  at  last,  rousing  himself. 
"  How  cold  it  is  !  You'd  better  build  a  fire,  Thompson.  Ill  ? 
no,  I  ain't  ill."  As  he  spoke  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  drawn 
and  haggard  face  in  the  glass  and  started  back.  "  I — I  do  look 
pretty  badly,  but  I  ain't  ill." 

"  Y'r  'ighness  had  better  take  precious  good  care  of  yourself, 
or  you  will  be."     Thompson  said  "tyke"  and"kyer,"  being  a 
thorough-bred  cockney.    For  the  same  reason  he  always  remem- 
bered that  his  lodger  had  a  title,  though  only  a  foreign  one.  • 
Thompson  had  once  been  a  stable-boy  on  the  estate  of  a  "dook" 

335 


in  his  native  land,  and  he  didn't  think  much  of  foreign  titles. 
But  he  felt  that  as  long  as  "y'  grace"  or  "y'  ludship"  didn't 
sound  just  right  "y'r  'ighness"  would  be  a  happy  substitute. 

"  I  couldn't  sleep,"  Baretta  repeated.  "  Send  me  up  some 
strong  coffee,  Thompson,  and  a  couple  of  eggs.  I  feel  faint,  but 
I  haven't  any  appetite.  But  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  tell  me 
I'm  ill!"  he  added,  irritably.  "  I'd  be  all  right  if  I  could  sleep." 

He  went  into  the  chamber  while  the  janitor  was  labouring 
over  the  fire,  and  presently  reappeared  with  one  of  his  razors  in 
his  hand.  "  Look  here,  Thompson,"  he  said,  "  do  you  think  it 
would  hurt  a  man  very  much  to  cut  his  throat — that  is,  after  the 
first  moment  of  pain  ?  Could  he  be  sure  of  killing  himself  in- 
stantly— of  losing  consciousness  at  once  ?  Or  would  a  revolver 
be  better?  That  scamp  Emil  has  left  his  revolver  behind  him. 
What  would  you  advise,  Thompson  ?" 

"  For  Gawd's  sake  !"  cried  the  frightened  janitor,  jumping  to 
his  feet  and  wrenching  the  razor  from  Baretta's  hand.  "  Are 
you  hout  of  your  'ead  ?  A  suercide,  y'r  'ighness,  and  in  this 
'ouse !" 

"  Don't  you  worry,  Thompson,"  said  Baretta,  with  a  wild  and 
discordant  laugh.  "Oh,  I'm  not  going  to  hurt  myself.  Give 
me  back  that  razor,  you  fool ;  I  want  to  shave,  that's  all.  Don't 
I  look  as  if  I  needed  it  ?  Give  it  to  me,  I  say !" 

"  If  y'r  'ighness  is  sure — " 

"  Sure  ?  Of  course  I'm  sure.  I  was  only  trying  to  scare  yon. 
It  won't  be  in  your  house — don't  you  worry  about  that." 

Thompson  yielded  this  possible  weapon  very  reluctantly, 
nevertheless,  and  was  inexpressibly  relieved,  when  he  came  back 
with  the  toast  and  eggs,  to  find  the  Baron  seated  calmly  before 
the  fire  reading  the  morning  paper.  "  I  'ope  y'r  'ighness  won't 
give  me  such  a  start  again,"  he  said. 

"  What  start  ?     Oh,  about  the  razor  !     Don't  be  a  fool." 

The  man  deposited  the  tray  upon  the  table,  and  hovered 
about  as  if  uncertain  whether  to  stay  or  go.  "  I  'ope  there's 
nothing  troubling  y'r  'ighness,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  No,  no — of  course  not !  You  mind  your  own  business, 
Thompson." 

"  It  was  only  a  friendly  hinterest,"  Thompson  said,  reproach- 

336 


fully.  He  went  to  the  door,  then  came  back  again.  "  The 
hagent  was  'ere  yesterday  about  the  rent,"  he  said,  with  an 
apologetic  cough. 

"  Well,  well,  I  will  attend  to  that.  And  if  you  will  kindly 
leave  me  to  myself  until  I  have  eaten  my  breakfast — " 

"  Cert'nly,  y'r  'ighness."  And  Thompson  went  away,  not 
without  an  uneasy  backward  glance  at  his  lodger. 

Baretta  pulled  himself  together,  and  ate  his  eggs  and  drank 
the  coffee  with  an  effort.  He  was  in  truth  a  little  alarmed  about 
himself.  His  mind  was  clear  enough  now,  but  he  recalled  those 
wild  dreams  of  the  night  with  a  shudder.  What  did  it  all  mean 
— that  he  was  losing  his  wits  under  the  heavy  pressure  of  mis- 
fortune ?  How  could  that  be  possible,  when  there  was  still  hope 
that  he  might  get  the  better  of  all  his  enemies?  If  he  had  an 
ally  like  Sibley  Lawrence  on  his  side,  Binney  or  anybody  else 
would  be  mighty  careful  about  attacking  him.  And  this  was 
what  he  must  do  to  save  himself.  He  smiled  as  he  thought 
what  a  triumph  it  would  be  to  have  defied  his  father  and  yet  to 
marry  Miss  Lawrence  and  remain  the  Baron  Smolzow  after  all. 
He  would  not  then  fear  anything  that  any  one,  even  his  father 
himself,  might  do.  Let  him  spread  his  idle  tale  abroad  ;  no  one 
would  believe  it  of  Siblev  Lawrence's  son-in-law.  And  he  had 
the  papers  safely  locked  up  in  his  desk.  It  would  be  hard  work 
to  prove  that  they  were  not  genuine  ;  let  Yates  and  the  rest  try 
it  if  they  dared.  Yes,  he  was  very  sure  the  papers  were  gen- 
uine, however  his  father  might  have  come  by  them.  They  were 
safe  enough — along  with  the  money  which  he  had  received  for 
some  lectures  over  at  Cambridge  at  two  dollars  a  ticket.  What 
had  Thompson  bothered  him  for  in  that  way  about  the  rent? 
Confound  the  fellow !  but  he  would  give  him  the  money.  He 
went  to  the  desk  and  unlocked  it,  and  pulled  out  the  drawer 
where  he  kept  his  bank-notes,  his  papers,  and  other  valuables. 
It  was  empty. 

The  discovery  completely  unnerved  him.  He  fell  back  in  his 
chair  with  a  strange  choking  sob.  This  was  the  worst  blow  of 
all ;  it  destroyed  his  hopes  completely.  Everything  was  gone — 
his  money,  and  the  papers  that  he  had  relied  upon  to  enable  him 
to  prove  his  claim  in  spite  of  all  the  accusations  which  might  be 

v  337 


brought  against  him.  And  now  they  were  gone  !  Stolen  by 
the  vile  thief  who  had  been  mean  enough  to  take  his  watch  and 
his  slender  stock  of  plate  and  a  few  costly  pieces  of  china  and 
the  little  mementos  that  had  been  given  him  by  his  admirers. 
Gone — gone  !  What  a  fool  he  had  been  not  to  suspect  at  once 
when  he  discovered  the  other  thefts.  But  his  desk  had  been 
locked — as  if  that  would  make  any  difference  to  a  clever  rascal 
like  his  father  !  The  papers  that  he  had  risked  so  much  to  gain, 
on  which  he  now  depended  as  a  forlorn  last  hope,  were  no 
longer  in  his  possession.  To  lose  them  was  worse  than  to  lose 
the  money,  badly  as  he  needed  that.  And  his  father  had  taken 
them  away.  It  was  the  consummation  of  an  infamous  plot 
against  him.  For  a  long  time  he  sat  before  the  open  drawer, 
dazed  and  with  a  stupefying  consciousness  of  impotence.  There 
was  nothing  now  that  he  could  do  but  yield  to  fate  and  go  away 
forever.  Then  a  fresh  realization  of  how  much  this  would 
mean  came  upon  him,  and  he  started  up  muttering  that  he  would 
balk  them  all  yet.  He  strode  up  and  down  the  room  with 
clinched  fists  ;  and  there  was  a  bitter  scowl  upon  his  face. 
There  was  at  least  one  enemy  within  reach  who  should  feel  the 
fury  of  his  revenge. 

He  was  still  very  pale,  and  there  was  the  same  unnatural  light 
in  his  eyes,  when,  on  the  afternoon  of  this  same  day,  he  rang 
the  bell  at  the  house  in  Mount  Vernon  Street.  His  hand  was 
trembling  violently  when  he  gave  his  card  to  the  man  who 
came  to  the  door,  and  who  stared  at  him  disapprovingly  as  he 
asked  him  into  the  drawing-room.  He  suspected  the  Baron  of 
having  been  drinking  more  than  was  good  for  him — a  suspicion 
which  would  have  been  strengthened  had  he  waited  to  see  the 
visitor  walking  nervously  abeut  the  room,  his  hat  and  gloves 
still  in  his  hand,  and  at  intervals  shaking  his  head  and  mutter- 
ing to  himself. 

"  Miss  Lawrence — Mildred  !"  Baretta  cried,  turning  sudden- 
ly as  she  entered.  He  had  been  waiting  a  long  while,  as  it 
seemed  to  him ;  and  he  had  began  to  wonder  if  by  any  chance 
his  enemies  had  been  before  him,  if  she  would  refuse  to  see  him 
at  all.  "  Oh,  forgive  me  !"  he  added,  "  but  I  was  afraid  I  might 
never  see  you  again.  You  will  forgive  me,  won't  you,  when 

338 


you  understand  how  much  I  have  suffered  ?  Good  God !  Mil- 
dred— what  is  it  ?  why  don't  you  speak  to  me  ?" 

"  Mr.  Baretta  !"  said  Mildred,  shrinking  from  him.  "  You  are 
forgetting  yourself.  I — I  don't  know  what  right  you  have  to 
address  me  in  that  manner.  Will  you  be  seated  ?"  she  asked, 
indicating  a  chair  near  by.  "  I — I  thought  I  would  see  you, 
Mr.  Baretta,"  she  went  on  in  an  embarrassed  way,  "  because  I 
would  not  condemn  you  unheard." 

"  Oh,  they  have  come  to  you  already,  have  they  ?"  exclaimed 
the  young  man,  rising  hastily  and  sending  his  chair  half  across 
the  room  with  the  vehemence  of  the  movement.  "  They  have 
tried  to  poison  your  mind  against  me  with  vile  stories — that  are 
false,  I  tell  you !  every  word  of  them  is  false  !" 

"  Unless  you  can  control  yourself  better  than  this,  Mr.  Baretta, 
I  cannot  listen  to  you  at  all."  Mildred  had  risen,  too,  and  her 
face  was  pale  as  if  with  fear ;  but  nevertheless  her  voice  was 
firm  and  her  manner  coldly  determined.  "  I  do  not  want  to  be- 
lieve ill  of  you ;  I  hope  it  is  all  a  mistake." 

"  It's  a  lie — that's  what  it  is  !  That  fellow  is  a  scoundrel — a 
villain !  I  sent  him  away,  and  this  is  his  revenge.  Why,  he's 
a  thief — he  stole  my  watch,  my  money,  when  he  went.  He  even 
took  the  papers  which  prove  that  I  am  Baron  Sraolzow.  But 
no  one  can  prove  that  I  am  not." 

"  I — I  wish  I  knew  what  to  think." 

"  It's  a  lie,  I  tell  you  !  Isn't  my  word  as  good  as  his  ?  Oh, 
I  know  very  well  who  has  been  slandering  me  to  you.  He 
came  and  threatened  me,  and  I  defied  him  to  do  his  worst. 
But  you  know  his  motive — you  will  not  let  him  come  between 
us.  Miss  Lawrence,"  Baretta  went  on,  "  you  must  listen  to  me. 
You  must  have  seen  that  I  love  you — I  adore  you.  I  will  do 
anything  if  I  may  have  the  hope  of  making  you  my  wife." 

"  Mr.  Baretta,  I  beg  you  to  say  no  more.  It  is  very  distress- 
ing to  me ;  it  must  be  distressing  to  you.  I  will  try  to  forget 
it — to  believe  that  you  do  not  realize  your  position." 

"  My  position !"  he  cried.  "  I  suppose  you  mean  that  it  is 
presumption  on  my  part."  He  gave  a  scornful  laugh.  "  Pre- 
sumption !  Well,  if  I  am  Baron  Smolzow,  I  don't  see  why. 
And  I  tell  you  I  am !  What  have  you  heard  to  the  contrary 

339 


except  a  lot  of  idle  gossip  ?  It  was  a  low  trick — and  do  you 
think  I  don't  understand  the  motive  ?  If  you  really  cared  for 
me  you  would  not  heed  it  for  a  moment." 

"  I  do  not  care  for  you — in  the  way  you  wish,"  Mildred  said. 

"  That  is  no  answer  at  all.  Why  won't  you  say  that  you 
don't  believe  his  lies?  A  fellow  who  has  always  hated  me, 
who  is  jealous  of  my  success !  Oh  yes — you  have  listened  to 
Yates,  but  you  will  not  listen  to  me  !" 

"  We  will  end  this  conversation,  if  you  please,"  said  Mildred, 
haughtily.  "  I  have  tried  to  be  patient,  but  there  is  a  limit  to 
everything.  Will  you  excuse  me  ?" 

She  moved  towards  the  door,  but  Baretta  placed  himself  be- 
fore it  and  intercepted  her.  "You  must  listen  to  me !"  he  cried  ; 
"  I  tell  you  that  you  must !" 

"  Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  let  me  pass  ?" 

"  No — not  till  you  have  heard  what  I  have  to  say.  Oh,  for- 
give me,  Mildred,  but  I  am  desperate — my  love  for  you  is  driv- 
ing me  wild.  I  tell  you  that  you  must  listen !  Why  do  you 
treat  me  with  scorn,  as  if  I  were  the  dirt  under  your  feet  ?"  he 
asked,  bitterly.  "  Is  it  because  you  are  still  in  love  with  him — 
with  that  fellow  Yates,  who  isn't  worth  your  love  ?  I  guess  I'm 
as  good  as  he !  It's  all  a  lie,  I  tell  you — the  story  that  I  have 
no  right  to  the  title  and  estates.  I  can  give  you  an  honourable 
name — I  can  make  you  rich.  Why  should  you  look  down  on 
me  ?  I  might  have  been  nobody  when  you  knew  me  first,  but 
that's  all  over  now.  Mildred,  my  whole  future  is  in  your  hands. 
If  you  throw  me  over — well,  you'll  see  what  I  will  do.  I  won't 
be  cast  aside  for  him — just  you  remember  that !  Yes,"  he  cried, 
menacingly,  "  if  it  comes  to  murder  the  blood  will  be  on  your 
head  I" 

"  Will  you  let  me  pass  ?" 

"  Not  till  you've  heard  me  out.  Don't  think  I'd  hurt  you, 
Mildred — why,  I  love  every  hair  of  your  head.  I'd  lay  down  my 
life  for  you.  Look  at  this !"  he  cried,  drawing  Herr  Emil's  re- 
volver from  his  pocket.  "  There's  a  bullet  here  for  some  one, 
and  it's  as  likely  to  be  me  as  anybody." 

Mildred  turned  very  pale  at  the  sight  of  the  weapon,  but  she 
would  not  show  she  was  afraid.  "  I  used  to  try  to  think  you  a 

340 


gentleman,"  she  said,  angrily,  "  but  I  know  now  that  you  are 
not.  Will  you  let  me  pass,  or  shall  I  ring  for  the  servants  ?" 

"  The  servants  !  Oh,  you  will  have  me  put  out  of  the  house, 
will  you?"  Baretta's  eyes  dilated  with  sudden  fury  as  he 
spoke.  "  The  servants  !  Let  one  of  them  touch  me,  that's  all ! 
So  it's  war  you  want,  is  it  ?"  he  went  on.  "  You  despise  me — 
you  refuse  me ;  you  think  that  the  slanders  which  Yates  has 
been  pouring  into  your  ears  are  true.  I  suppose  you  haven't 
thought  how  some  stories  would  sound  about  yourself,  have 
you  ?  Oh,  that  hits  home — I  guess  you  read  the  Packet  /  Well, 
if  I'm  disgraced,  you'll  be  disgraced,  too.  You  can  marry  me 
or  not,  but  people  will  think  you  wanted  to." 

"  You  coward !"  was  Mildred's  contemptuous  response  to  his 
wild  harangue. 

"  Coward  !"  Baretta  shrieked.  "  Say  that  again — just  you 
say  that  again !"  He  flourished  his  revolver,  but  Mildred  only 
looked  at  him  with  eyes  full  of  contempt  and  loathing.  "  Oh, 
I'll  have  my  revenge  for  this ;  I  won't  be  ruined  all  alone." 

But  here  an  unexpected  interruption  occurred.  "  What  does 
this  mean  ?"  Mildred's  father  asked,  suddenly  flinging  open  the 
door. 

"  Oh,  papa !"  and  the  girl  who  had  faced  her  peril  bravely 
enough,  but  who  was  quite  unnerved  by  her  deliverance  from  it, 
threw  herself  into  Mr.  Lawrence's  arms  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  I  have  just  one  thing  to  say  to  you,"  Mr.  Lawrence  said, 
with  a  sternness  all  the  more  impressive  because  it  came  from 
so  mild  a  man,  turning  to  Baretta:  "  Leave  this  house  instantly." 

Baretta  looked  at  him  blankly  a  moment ;  then  he  picked  up 
his  hat.  "  I'll  pay  you  all  for  this  yet !"  he  cried,  furiously,  as 
he  rushed  out. 

There  was  nothing  left  but  that — nothing  but  revenge.  This 
was  the  one  idea  that  possessed  him  as  he  wandered  desperate- 
ly about  the  streets,  neither  knowing  nor  caring  where  he  went. 
His  brain  was  in  a  whirl,  but  this  single  point  was  clear  enough. 
Revenge  upon  them  all — it  would  be  sweet  indeed.  His  last 
desperate  hope  was  gone,  but  he  would  not  suffer  alone.  First 
of  all  there  was  Yates ;  it  was  Yates  who  had  done  this.  What 
could  be  plainer?  He  had  come  to  him  with  threats,  and  then 

841 


he  had  gone  to  Miss  Lawrence  and  told  her  all.  Baretta  could 
not  see  how  futile  this  assumption  was.  He  could  not  under- 
stand that  others  should  be  more  scrupulous  than  himself.  Oh, 
it  was  all  so  very  obvious !  And  now  Yates  should  be  the  first 
to  suffer.  He  could  strike  at  Miss  Lawrence  through  Yates, 
whom  she  still  loved ;  he  had  accused  her  of  loving  him,  and 
she  had  not  denied  it.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  she  would  have 
believed  him  when  he  told  her  that  the  story  was  all  a  lie.  Now 
there  was  no  one  to  believe  him  ;  even  the  wretched  papers  for 
which  he  had  risked  everything  had  been  stolen  from  him.  No 
one  would  believe  him — no  one  but  Maud !  whom  he  had  been 
willing  to  abandon  in  order  to  save  himself.  Perhaps  this  was 
not  the  least  humiliation  which  he  had  to  undergo.  It  was  a 
hideous  thing  to  sell  one's  honour  and  then  be  cheated  out  of 
the  reward.  But  he  loved  Maud,  and  he  would  be  faithful  to 
her  now  whatever  happened.  He  did  not  ask  himself  how 
much  such  fidelity  was  worth. 

Night  was  coming  on,  and  he  began  to  realize  that  a  feeling 
of  irrepressible  weariness  was  overtaking  him.  He  could  no 
longer  think  even  of  revenge ;  only  a  succession  of  confused 
and  uncertain  images  were  projected  upon  the  retina  of  his 
brain.  He  found  himself  at  last  sitting  in  a  doorway  near 
Manchester  Square,  pressing  both  hands  to  his  throbbing  tem- 
ples. Why  had  he  wandered  here  ?  Was  it  because  fancy  had 
carried  him  back  to  the  old  days,  before  these  cursed  ambitions 
had  taken  possession  of  him  ?  And  Maud  was  his  friend  now 
as  then.  Oh  yes — he  would  go  to  Maud ;  she,  at  least,  would 
be  kind  to  him.  He  walked  on  to  Roxbury,  and  found  the 
dingy  tenement,  and  climbed  with  feverish  haste  the  steep  and 
narrow  stairs.  Ill  ? — why  should  he  be  ill  ?  He  heard  himself 
asking  Maud  this  question,  and  he  knew  then  that  she  was  try- 
ing to  soothe  him,  to  persuade  him  to  lie  down  and  rest.  Ill ! 
but  he  felt  well  enough.  Then  presently  he  awoke,  all  alone  in 
the  dim  room,  and  hurried  down-stairs.  There  was  a  woman 
screaming  somewhere,  and  pounding  on  a  door.  What  did  it  all 
mean  ?  But  how  foolish  it  was  in  Maud  to  talk  of  sending  for 
a  doctor;  he  was  as  well  as  any  one.  It  was  because  Maud 
was  so  fond  of  him.  This  was  the  one  consolation  that  he  had. 

342 


And  it  was  she  whom  he  had 'loved  at  the  last.  He  seemed 
to  hear  himself  telling  her  that  as  he  hurried  away  through  the 
darkness  once  more.  He  knew  now  what  it  was  that  he  must 
do.  He  placed  his  hand  instinctively  upon  the  revolver  in  his 
pocket  as  he  walked  along. 

343 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 
BARETTA'S  REVENGE 

"  IT  is  no  more  than  I  expected,"  Daisy  had  said,  when  Philip 
went  to  her  with  this  strange  story  about  the  Baron  Smolzow. 
"  Oh,  it  isn't  because  I  want  to  say,  '  I  told  you  so.'  But  I 
knew  that  he  wasn't  a  gentleman,  and  his  absurd  pretences 
about  his  title  showed  very  plainly  that  he  was  an  adventurer." 

"  I'm  afraid  there's  no  doubt  of  that  now,"  said  Philip, 
gravely. 

"  How  stupid  in  everybody  to  be  taken  in !  Oh  yes,  nearly 
everybody  was  taken  in,  although  now  they'll  find  out  that  they 
suspected  him  from  the  first.  It's  always  the  way.  I  dare  say, 
Philip,  you  think  I  was  taken  in,  too,  in  spite  of  what  I  say." 

"  I  wouldn't  dispute  your  word  in  any  case,  Daisy.  But  I 
haven't  forgotten  how  frank  you  have  been  in  your  dislike  of 
him.  I  had  hoped  it  was  all  prejudice  on  our  part." 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  he's  been  found  out.  Is  that  very  horrid  of 
me?  Perhaps  it  is,  but  I  can't  help  hating  him.  And  oh, 
Philip,  to  think  what  people  will  say  about  her  after  that  silly 
gossip  in  the  Packet!  Have  you  seen  it?" 

"  Yes,"  Philip  said.  "  That  is  why  I  came  to  you — because 
some  one  must  let  her  know.  This  story  that  is  coming  out  in 
the  Mail — well,  they  will  keep  her  name  out  of  that.  But  she 
must  be  told  beforehand.  I  hated  to  come  to  you,  Daisy ;  it 
seemed  somehow  mean  and  underhanded.  And — and  of  course 
you  will  let  no  one  know  that  I  interfered  in  any  way.  It 
might  be  rather  distressing — under  all  the  circumstances." 

"  Oh,  I  have  no  patience  with  her !"  Daisy  cried.  "  And 
you,"  she  said,  as  he  rose  to  go  and  she  gave  him  her  hand, 

344 


"you  have  too  much  patience.  I — I  wish —  Well,  good-bye, 
Philip.  I  can't  promise  never  to  betray  you." 

But  she  did  promise,  after  all,  because  Philip  made  such  a 
point  of  it.  After  he  had  gone  she  sat  in  the  drawing-room 
until  one  of  the  servants  came  in  with  lights,  and  started  back 
with  an  apology  at  finding  her  alone  before  the  fire.  "  Oh  yes, 
Mary,"  Daisy  said,  "  I  was  thinking  of  ringing.  I  am  not  at 
home  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon."  How  very  short  the  days 
were,  she  thought ;  only  half-past  four  and  it  was  quite  dark. 
She  went  up-stairs  to  put  on  her  hat  and  jacket,  and  she  stood 
rather  longer  than  usual  before  the  mirror,  gazing  at  herself 
very  critically.  "  I  wish  I  was  really  pretty.  Some  people 
might  think  me  passably  good-looking,  but  I'm  not  my  style  of 
girl  at  all.  Isn't  it  horrid  to  have  red  hair  ?  If  mine  were  only 
as  dark  as  hers !  Oh,  I  have  no  patience  with  her !" 

Meanwhile  Yates  had  gone  away  wondering  if  he  had  done 
right  after  all,  and  what  would  be  the  result  of  his  interference. 
He  was  very  anxious  that  Mildred  should  not  know  that  he  had 
any  hand  in  warning  her.  She  would  suspect  him  of  motives 
which  he  did  not  have,  and  either  exaggerate  his  services  or  else 
be  unjust  to  him.  He  smiled  rather  bitterly  as  he  reflected 
that  the  latter  alternative  was  the  more  probable.  But  what 
did  it  matter  to  him  ?  He  had  quite  done  with  all  that  non- 
sense. A  woman  needn't  expect  to  have  a  man's  heart  forever  at 
her  feet  to  trample  on.  His  hurt  had  been  a  grievous  one,  but 
he  had  endured  it  as  manfully  as  he  could ;  and  now  if  the  pain 
grew  less,  if  the  old  wound  ceased  to  burn  and  throb,  let  him 
be  grateful  for  that.  It  was  surprising  how  much  comfort  he 
found  in  the  thought  that  Daisy  understood  him  and  sympa- 
thized with  him.  Perhaps  it  was  even  absurd,  because  Daisy 
was  not,  after  all,  an  extraordinary  girl  in  any  way.  She  was 
nice  enough,  but  he  could  not  imagine  why  any  one  should  fall 
in  love  with  her  more  than  with  a  dozen  other  girls.  Then  he 
impatiently  told  himself  that  this  was  a  foolish  train  of  thought ; 
and  he  went  to  the  club  for  the  diversion  of  a  few  games  of  pool 
before  dinner. 

It  was  the  next  evening  when  Parker  came  to  his  rooms  in 
Livingstone  Place  to  tell  him  that  the  story  about  Baretta  would 

345 


appear  in  the  Mail  on  the  following  morning.  "  The  Baron  lias 
been  in  to  see  the  old  man,"  Parker  said,  "  and  I  guess  he 
threatened  him  with  a  libel  suit,  because  he  told  me  to  be  sure 
and  verify  every  single  statement ;  and  he  treated  my  stuff  with 
a  dose  of  blue  pencil,  confound  him !  But  it's  going  to  come 
out  to-morrow." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  dare  say  you  have  the  facts  all  right.  I  am  much 
obliged  to  you  for  letting  me  know,  but  there's  nothing  I  can 
do  now." 

"  I've  done  as  I  promised,  at  any  rate.  And  you'll  find 
that  I've  kept  out  the  names  of  the  Lawrences  and  all  those 
people." 

"  I  suppose  you  owe  me  a  grudge  for  that,  but  I  had  a  very 
good  reason  for  asking  you,"  Philip  said.  "  I  am  sure  Mr.  Bin- 
ney  would  say  I  was  right.  Oh,  don't  hurry  away.  Won't  you 
have  a  cigar?" 

"  Thanks — I'll  smoke  it  by-and-by,  but  I  really  must  go  now. 
Good-night,  Mr.  Yates.  There'll  be  a  big  demand  for  the  Mail 
in  the  morning,  I  guess." 

Philip  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  after  Parker  had  gone,  not  because 
that  young  man's  society  bored  him,  but  because  he  was  thank- 
ful to  have  Baretta  and  his  concerns  off  his  mind.  He  pitied 
the  poor  devil,  to  be  sure  ;  but  at  last  he  had  rid  himself  of  the 
responsibility  which  so  many  people  had  insisted  in  thrusting 
upon  him,  and  he  knew  that  Mildred  had  by  this  time  been 
made  acquainted  with  the  truth.  His  sympathy  with  the  young 
man  might  have  been  more  active  had  not  the  recollection  of 
his  last  interview  with  him  been  so  fresh  in  his  mind.  That 
had  shown  him  in  his  true  colours — a  fellow  who  was  unprin- 
cipled and  reckless.  There  had  been  murder  in  his  eye  when 
he  threw  that  knife.  "  Pah  !"  said  Philip  to  himself.  "  Why 
can't  I  dismiss  him  from  my  mind  ?"  Yes,  it  was  very  clear 
that  he  needed  some  distraction — something  to  take  him  out  of 
his  past  and  give  life  a  fresh  aspect  to  him.  Even  if  he  had 
succeeded  in  teaching  himself  to  forget  Mildred,  he  would  not 
have  been  happy.  He  felt  the  need  of  new  interests,  of  other 
hopes.  Simply  to  be  content  with  an  acknowledgment  of  fail- 
ure was  moral  and  mental  death.  And  it  ought  to  mean  so 

346 


much  just  to  live  when  one  is  still  young,  with  good  health  and 
with  money  enough  to  keep  one  from  want. 

How  long  he  sat  before  the  fire  reflecting  thus  he  did  not 
know,  but  the  sound  of  a  knock  at  the  door  reminded  him  that 
it  was  very  late,  and  he  arose  to  answer  it,  vaguely  wondering 
who  his  visitor  could  be.  He  started  back  in  amazement  when 
he  saw  that  it  was  Baretta.  "  You  !"  he  cried. 

"Yes,  me — why  shouldn't  it  be  me?"  Baretta  said,  coming  in. 
"  I  guess  you'll  listen  to  me  this  time."  He  brushed  by  Yates 
and  flung  himself  into  a  chair.  "  Don't  you  try  to  put  me  out !" 
he  cried. 

Philip  stared  at  him.  Baretta's  face  was  pale  and  his  lips 
twitched  nervously,  but  his  eyes  were  unusually  bright.  He 
laughed  in  a  mocking  fashion  when  he  saw  how  he  had  aston- 
ished his  enemy.  "  Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  he  said.  "  Don't  you 
be  afraid.  It's  a  matter  of  business  I've  got  to  settle  with  you, 
and  there's  no  time  like  the  present,  is  there  ?" 

"  I  think  you  had  better  come  some  other  time  for  that," 
Philip  said,  still  holding  the  door  open. 

"Oh,  do  you  think  you  can  turn  me  out?  Well,  you  can't. 
But  see  here,"  Baretta  went  on,  with  a  sudden  change  from  de- 
fiance to  entreaty,  "  why  should  you  want  to  be  rough  on  me, 
Yates?  When  a  poor  devil  is  down  it's  hardly  fair  to  give  him 
a  kick.  It  ain't  what  I  expected  of  you.  I — I  beg  your  pardon 
for  coming  in  as  I  did,"  he  said,  rising  and  laying  his  hat  upon 
the  table,  "  but  I've  had  so  much  to  endure — so  many  enemies 
to  fight — that  I  felt  almost  desperate.  If  you  knew  how  my 
head  aches — here !  And  yet  she  refused  to  listen  to  me.  No 
one  will  listen  to  me  but  you — and  you  must  do  that.  Do  you 
think  I'll  go  down  without  a  struggle,  and  let  you  all  jeer  at 
me  ?  No,  by  Heaven  !  I  won't  do  that !  But  I  say,  Yates,  you 
must  forgive  me  if  I  talk  a  little  wild.  I've  had  so  much  to 
endure.  Why,  there  are  a  dozen  men  outside  there  shaking 
their  heads  and  laughing  at  me.  I  heard  them  saying  «  He's 
not  Baron  Smolzow '  as  I  came  up  the  stairs." 

"Oh,  well,  I  wouldn't  think  of  that,"  said  Philip,  sooth- 
ingly. Pie  closed  the  door,  and  came  back  to  the  fireplace, 
on  one  side  of  which  his  unexpected  visitor  was  now  sitting. 

347 


"  You  just  stay  here  a  little  while,  and  perhaps  they  will  go 
away." 

"  Go  away  ?     They'll  never  go  away." 

"  I  will  look  out  for  that.  You  are  tired,  and  you  need  a  lit- 
tle rest." 

Baretta  leaned  back,  in  the  chair  with  a  sigh  and  closed  his 
eyes.  Philip  remarked  once  more  how  intense  his  pallor  was, 
how  his  whole  hearing  was  that  of  a  man  who  had  collapsed 
under  an  intense  strain.  Of  course  he  could  not  send  him  away 
while  he  was  out  of  his  head ;  there  was  no  telling  what  harm 
he  might  do  to  himself.  Philip  had  been  little  inclined,  as  we 
have  seen,  to  sympathize  with  Baretta  in  his  humiliation  and 
ruin,  but  it  was  impossible  to  cherish  unkindly  feelings  against 
one  with  whom  Fate  had  dealt  so  hardly  as  this.  Surely  the 
blow  had  been  a  heavy  one — far  heavier  than  he  had  supposed 
it  could  be  in  the  case  of  one  guarded  by  the  armour  of  an  in- 
tense egoism,  which  usually  offers  more  consolations  than  all  the 
religion  in  the  world. 

"  I — I  guess  I  am  tired,"  Baretta  said,  presently.  "  I've  had  a 
great  deal  on  my  mind.  A  man  doesn't  lose  a  title  and  estates 
every  day.  No  doubt  you're  glad  of  it — " 

"I'm  not  glad  of  it !"  Philip  cried.  "  I  wish  you'd  get  rid  of 
that  foolish  idea,  Baretta,"  he  went  on,  forgetting  that  if  his 
visitor  were  indeed  out  of  his  head  it  would  be  idle  to  argue 
with  him.  "  You've  thrown  it  in  my  face  a  hundred  times ;  but 
it  isn't  true — it  never  was  true." 

"  I  know  a  good  deal  more  than  you  think,"  said  Baretta,  with 
a  cunning  smile.  "  Why,  look  here,  she  turned  me  out  of  her 
house  to-day — actually  turned  me  out  of  her  house.  Whose  do- 
ing was  that  ?  Do  you  suppose  I  am  a  child  to  be  deceived  by 
your  pretences  ?  That's  what  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about — 
if  those  damned  fellows  down -stairs  would  only  go  away  and 
leave  me  in  peace." 

"  Oh,  I  think  they're  going.  But  we  can  discuss  that  some 
other  time — when  you  are  not  so  tired.  What  you  must  do  is 
to  forget  all  about  that  Baron  story  and  begin  again.  It  will 
seem  hard  at  first,  but  things  will  come  around  all  right  in  time. 
And  I  dare  say  you  will  be  happier  working  on  in  the  old  way, 

348 


When  you  feel  quite  rested  I'll  walk  along  with  you.  A  good 
night's  sleep  is  what  you  want  more  than  anything  else." 

"There'll  be  time  enough  for  sleep."  He  sighed  again,  and 
his  head  fell  forward  languidly  upon  his  breast. 

Philip  stood  looking  at  him  in  silence,  quite  undecided  how 
to  act  in  this  unexpected  emergency.  It  was  strange  that  Ba- 
retta's  affairs  should  be  thus  thrust  upon  him,  despite  his  anx- 
iety to  have  no  more  to  do  with  them.  There  must  have  been  a 
touch  of  insanity  in  Baretta  all  along ;  so  that  perhaps  he  was 
less  to  blame  than  circumstances  had  indicated.  It  was  the 
most  charitable  explanation  of  his  conduct,  at  any  rate. 

Half  an  hour  passed  and  Baretta  still  sat  with  closed  eyes, 
while  Philip  wandered  nervously  about  the  room.  He  was 
tempted  once  or  twice  to  call  upon  the  man  across  the  entry  for 
help  ;  but  when  he  went  to  the  window  he  saw  that  several  cabs 
stood  on  the  corner,  and  so  he  decided  that  the  best  thing  to  do 
was  to  get  Baretta  down-stairs  presently,  and  depend  upon  the 
assistance  of  a  cabman  to  take  him  home.  He  hated  to  disturb 
him,  for  he  hoped  that  he  would  awaken  of  his  own  accord,  and 
perhaps  with  his  faculties  fully  restored.  But  was  he  asleep  ? 
His  eyes  were  closed,  but  Philip  was  not  sure.  At  the  end  of  half 
an  hour  he  went  over  and  touched  him  lightly  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Yes,  yes  !"  said  Baretta,  starting  up.  "  Oh,  is  it  you,  Yates? 
Well,  see  here,"  he  went  on,  in  an  aggrieved  tone,  "you've 
played  a  mean  trick  on  me,  and  that's  the  matter  I  want  to  set- 
tle with  you." 

"  I  think  you'd  better  go  home.  There's  a  cab  below.  I'll 
go  along  with  you.  I'm  afraid  you're  not  feeling  very  well." 

"  I'm  as  well  as  I  ever  was.  Why  do  you  all  harp  on  my  be- 
ing ill  ?  There  was  Maud — she  said  the  same  thing.  You  don't 
know  Maud,  do  you  ?  Well,  she'll  stand  by  me ;  you  haven't 
had  the  chance  to  go  to  her  with  your  damnable  lies.  You  went 
to  Mildred,  and  she  turned  me  out  of  the  house.  But  you 
needn't  think  you'll  escape.  That's  the  matter  I've  come  to  set- 
tle with  you."  He  arose  as  he  spoke,  and  confronted  Yates  with 
a  malignant  scowl.  u  Yes,  and  I'll  settle  it  for  good  and  all," 
he  cried. 

"  Not  to-night,  Baretta ;  it  will  do  just  as  well  to-morrow.  But 

849 


you're  mistaken.  It  isn't  my  fault  that  the  story  has  come  out. 
And  if  you'll  take  my  advice,  and  bear  your  trouble  like  a  man, 
I'll  help  you." 

"  Help !  I  don't  want  your  help — I  despise  you  and  your 
help.  What  you  must  do  is  to  come  out  and  fight  me — do  you 
understand  ? — fight  me.  We  can  go  off  somewhere  to  a  quiet 
place,  and  you  can  try  to  finish  your  work  by  killing  me — unless 
I  kill  you.  Do  you  understand  me  now  ?" 

Clearly  the  young  man  was  quite  crazy,  and  there  was  noth- 
ing to  do  but  to  humour  him.  "  Oh  yes,  I  understand  you," 
said  Philip.  "  But  who  ever  heard  of  a  duel  without  seconds  ? 
You  go  home,  and  in  the  morning  send  some  friend  of  yours  to 
me,  and  then  the  whole  thing  can  be  arranged." 

"  Ah,  I  see  your  trick !  You  think  you  can  be  off  in  the 
morning,  and  that  I  can't  find  you  then.  No,  it's  now  or  never. 
Come,  come — no  more  nonsense  about  it !" 

"  Well,  we  can  talk  that  over  on  your  way  home.  I'll  go  with 
you.  We  can't  fight  here,  at  any  rate." 

"  Don't  imagine  you'll  escape  me,  though."  Baretta  took  up 
his  hat,  and  started  towards  the  door ;  but  suddenly  he  stag- 
gered slightly  and  pressed  his  hand  to  his  forehead  with  a  cry 
of  pain.  "  It  aches  !  it  aches  !"  he  muttered.  Then  he  turned 
to  Yates  again.  "  What  was  it  I  was  saying  ?"  he  asked.  "  My 
head  feels  a  little  queer." 

"  Oh,  it  was  nothing  of  any  consequence.  You'll  feel  better 
when  you  get  home." 

"  Who  said  I  was  ill  ?"  demanded  Baretta,  in  an  angry  tone, 
but  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  all  his  wits  about  him.  "  I'm 
not  in  the  least  ill — I  don't  see  why  you  should  all  insist  that  I 
am.  However,  that's  not  the  question.  You've  treated  me  abom- 
inably, Yates,  and  I've  come  here  to  tell  you  that  I  know  it,  and 
to  warn  you  that  I  intend  to  strike  back.  Why  wouldn't  you 
listen  to  me  the  other  day?  You  gave  me  no  chance  to  explain. 
You  swallowed  all  that  fellow's  lies  about  me,  and  then  rushed 
off  to  Miss  Lawrence  and  poisoned  her  mind  against  me.  By 
Heaven  !  I'll  have  my  revenge  for  that." 

"  I — I  don't  quite  know  what  to  make  of  you,"  Philip  said. 
"Are  you  in  your  right  mind  or  not?" 

350 


"  In  my  right  mind  ?  Of  course  I'm  in  my  right  mind.  What 
the  devil  are  you  driving  at  ?" 

"  Then  why  do  you  come  here  in  this  fashion  with  your  in- 
coherent rubbish  about  revenge  ?  It  looks  as  if  you'd  been  play- 
ing off  crazy  on  me." 

"  You  seem  to  be  a  little  touched  yourself !"  said  Baretta, 
contemptuously.  "  I  can't  understand  your  talk  on  any  other 
supposition.  But  we've  had  enough  of  this  sort  of  thing.  I  say 
again  that  you  have  slandered  and  maligned  me,  and  I  intend  to 
make  you  answer  for  it." 

"  It  is  not  I  who  have  slandered  and  maligned  you — if  you 
call  telling  the  truth  about  you  slandering  and  maligning.  I 
came  to  you  the  other  day  because  I  wanted  to  save  you — as 
well  as  others.  You  treated  me  in  such  a  manner  that  I  had  no 
other  course  left  than  the  one  I  took." 

"  Which  was  to  go  to  Miss  Lawrence — " 

"  We  will  leave  her  name  out  of  the  discussion,  if  you  please," 
interrupted  Philip.  "  You  have  said  quite  enough  about  her. 
If  I  hadn't  supposed  you  were  out  of  your  head —  But  I  didn't 
realize  that  you  were  such  a  fine  actor.  Really,"  Philip  said 
with  a  sneer,  "  now  that  the  Baron  business  is  played  out  you 
ought  to  go  on  the  stage." 

"  Damn  you  !"  cried  Baretta,  furiously.  "  I  suppose  you  think 
that  because  I  arn  down  you  can  kick  me  safely.  But  you'll 
find  out  your  mistake — just  remember  that.  Do  you  suppose  I 
believe  you  when  you  tell  me  you  had  no  hand  in  this  vile  con- 
spiracy against  me  ?  Pah  !  you  lie — you're  a  damned  liar,  that's 
what  you  are  !" 

"  Leave  this  room  !"  Philip  said,  sharply,  exasperated  beyond 
endurance  by  this  outbreak  of  insult  and  intemperate  anger. 
"  Leave  this  room  !  If  you  come  here  again  you'll  get  a  broken 
head.  That's  all  I  have  to  say  to  a  fellow  of  your  stamp.  Do 
you  hear  what  I  say  ?  Why  don't  you  go  ?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  going,"  said  Baretta,  with  a  mocking  laugh.  "  I'm 
going.  I  know  now  perfectly  well  who  my  enemy  is.  You've 
shown  yourself  in  your  true  colours.  Don't  blame  me  if 
anything  happens."  He  laughed  again,  bowed  very  low  with 
exaggerated  courtesy,  and  went  away  closing  the  door  loudly 

351 


behind  him.  Philip  heard  him  laugh  a  third  time  on  the 
stairs. 

"  After  all,"  Philip  said,  when  the  first  feeling  of  anger  had 
begun  to  die  away,  "  it  was  a  little  below  the  belt  to  talk  about 
the  Baron  business  and  the  stage."  He  was  rid  of  him  at  last, 
however ;  those  vapourings  about  revenge  were  too  ridiculous  to 
be  considered  seriously.  But  what  an  absurd  piece  of  business 
it  was  for  a  man  to  pretend  that  he  was  out  of  his  head !  Was 
it  pretence  ?  It  must  be  that,  since  Baretta  was  certainly  sane 
enough  when  he  went  away.  And  yet  Philip  was  not  sure.  It 
had  been  marvellously  real.  "  I  hope  he  will  get  home  all  right," 
Philip  thought.  After  all,  what  concern  was  it  of  his  ?  Since 
Baretta  had  apparently  come  to  his  senses,  at  any  rate,  he  had 
no  right  to  interfere.  It  was  a  responsibility  of  Avhich  he  was 
glad  to  be  relieved.  Nevertheless,  he  strolled  to  the  window 
presently  with  a  vague  idea  that  Baretta  might  still  be  lingering 
about.  There  was  no  one  in  the  place  below ;  even  the  cabs  on 
the  corner  had  disappeared.  "  Probably  he  rode  home,"  was 
Philip's  conclusion.  It  struck  him  that  the  air  was  close  in 
the  room,  and  he  threw  up  the  sash  and  leaned  out  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

Baretta  laughed  as  he  went  down  the  stairs,  and  when  he 
reached  the  pavement  he  looked  back  and  shook  his  fist  mena- 
cingly. "  If  I  had  only  done  it  then  !"  he  muttered.  "  I'm  a 
coward — a  coward  !  I  talk  and  talk,  but  when  the  time  comes 
to  act — pah  !  what  a  coward  I  am  !"  He  walked  to  the  corner, 
keeping  in  the  shadow  ;  then  he  stopped  short,  and  looked  back 
once  more.  "  What  did  he  mean  by  my  playing  off  crazy  ? 
Is  there  anything  wrong  with  me  ?  What  should  there  be 
wrong  ?  My  head  aches,  but  any  number  of  people  have  trouble 
of  that  sort.  What  a  coward  I  was  not  to  do  it  then !  Still, 
there  would  have  been  a  risk."  He  glanced  cautiously  about 
him.  "  From  that  doorway  across  the  street,  now — it's  dark  in 
there  and  no  one  would  see.  There's  that  cabman  shaking  his 
head  at  me  and  saying  I'm  not  Baron  Smolzow.  I  must  get  out 
of  his  sight,  anyway.  Damn  you,  I'll  fire  at  you  if  you  don't 
stop  shaking  your  head."  He  went  on  thus  with  incoherent 
mutterings  for  several  minutes,  and  more  than  one  passer-by 

352 


stopped  to  stare  at  him.  Then  he  crept  back  under  the  shadow 
of  the  building,  and  after  a  moment  of  hesitation,  crossed  over 
and  hid  himself  in  the  shadow  of  the  doorway  opposite.  He 
could  see  the  windows  of  Yates's  rooms  plainly  from  where  he 
stood.  Curse  the  fellow !  who  had  hated  him  from  the  first,  and 
had  worked  against  and  finally  ruined  him  ;  and  who  would  live 
in  luxury  among  the  swells,  while  he  married  Maud  and  went 
back  to  shabby  lodgings.  There  was  no  justice  in  it.  But  this 
was  an  unjust  world,  in  which  the  weakest  went  to  the  wall. 

His  father's  revolver  was  still  in  his  pocket,  and  he  took  it 
out  and  gazed  at  it  affectionately.  "  He  left  me  this  anyway,  if 
he  did  take  my  papers  and  my  money.  I  guess  it  may  be  just 
as  much  use."  He  chuckled  to  himself  at  the  thought.  It 
was  a  fine  thing  to  be  able,  simply  by  moving  a  finger,  to  put 
an  enemy  out  of  the  way.  It  gave  one  such  a  sense  of  power. 
Only  a  coward  would  worry  about  the  consequences.  That  cab- 
man out  there  would  be  shaking  his  infernal  head  again  and 
calling  him  a  coward.  He  peered  cautiously  from  the  doorway, 
but  there  was  no  one  in  sight.  The  cabman  must  be  around  the 
corner.  At  that  moment  he  heard  the  noise  of  an  opening  win- 
dow and  looked  up  quickly.  By  Heaven !  it  was  Yates ;  his 
figure  was  sharply  outlined  in  the  yellow  glow  from  within. 
Baretta  took  up  his  revolver  once  more  and  pointed  it  at  his 
unconscious  victim.  How  easy  it  would  be !  He  had  only  to 
move  a  finger,  and  then  all  that  he  had  suffered  would  be  amply 
avenged.  He  heard  some  one  whispering  in  his  ear  that  he  was 
a  coward.  A  coward  ?  He  would  show  them  whether  he  was  a 
coward  or  not. 

Then  a  shot  rang  sharply  out  in  the  still  night  air. 

z  353 


CHAPTER  XXXV 
"THERE  ARE  BLIND  WAYS  PROVIDED" 

IT  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  been  wandering  for  whole  days 
and  nights,  neither  eating  nor  sleeping — only  hurrying  through 
some  vague,  misty,  unknown  country  where  all  the  shapes  he 
met  were  grizzly  spectres.  He  had  raised  his  revolver  and  fired, 
and  then  he  had  slunk  away  in  the  shadow.  He  remembered 
hearing  voices,  and  seeing  two  or  three  hurrying  figures.  But 
no  one  had  noticed  him,  no  one  interfered  with  him  as  he  came 
out  into  the  light  and  walked  rapidly  away.  He  could  not 
quite  realize  what  he  had  done.  He  had  seen  Yates  stagger 
and  fall  backward ;  afterwards  everything  became  dim  before 
his  eyes.  The  two  squares  of  light  that  he  had  been  watch- 
ing flamed  out  red.  He  shivered  and  buttoned  his  coat  tightly 
about  him ;  the  wind  seemed  to  pierce  him  through  and  through 
as  he  hurried  on.  One  thought  only  was  in  his  mind — to  go 
where  his  enemies  could  not  reach  him.  He  had  nothing  to 
stay  for  now  that  he  had  punished  the  worst  enemy  of  all.  He 
could  not  revenge  himself  upon  Mildred,  who  had  called  him  a 
coward.  And  yet  if  she  loved  Yates  still,  this  would  be  strik- 
ing her  through  him.  Perhaps  that  was  the  completest  ven- 
geance of  all.  They  could  ruin  him  if  they  would,  but  he  had 
made  others  suffer ;  whatever  happened  it  would  be  sweet  to 
know  that.  But  now  he  must  go  away  before  they  found  him 
— before  the  hideous  story  was  ringing  in  everybody's  ears  as  it 
rang  in  his  own. 

What  was  the  thing  he  had  heard  that  Pinkerton  fellow  read 
one  day — the  man  whom  he  hated,  and  who  hated  him  ?  Curse 
him  !  why  was  there  no  way  of  shooting  him  down,  too  ?  And 

354 


Mildred  herself — the  revolver  had  been  in  his  hand  when  she 
called  him  a  coward,  and  still  he  had  not  used  it.  That  would 
have  been  the  fitting  ending  of  all,  to  take  her  life,  and  then  his 
own  !  It  was  too  late  now  ;  but  why  had  he  not  done  it  ?  Sure- 
ly life  was  drawing  to  a  close  for  him.  He  had  shot  down 
Yates,  but  his  own  time  was  coming  ;  this  throbbing  in  his  tem- 
ples, the  red  light  that  dazzled  his  eyes — were  they  not  fatal 
premonitions?  Oh  yes,  he  would  find  some  refuge  from  his 
troubles  at  the  last.  Strange  that  he  could  not  recall  the  lines 
that  Pinkerton  had  read  !  he  whose  memory  was  so  good.  It 
must  be  the  pain  he  was  suffering  that  bewildered  him.  There 
were  blind  ways  provided — oh,  he  knew  the  lines  now !  Where 
was  he  ?  Here  were  the  naked  branches  of  the  trees  wailing 
above  his  head ;  it  was  like  some  great  scene  in  a  theatre. 

"  There  are  blind  ways  provided,  the  foredone, 
Ileart-weary  player  in  this  pageant  world 
Drops  out  by,  letting  the  main  masque  defile 
By  the  conspicuous  portal." 

What  did  it  all  mean  ?  The  words  were  meaningless  enough  to 
him.  Poetry  was  poor  stuff ;  there  was  no  consolation  in  talk- 
ing about  players  and  masques  when  one  had  played  his  own 
part  merely  to  be  hissed  off  the  stage.  What  did  the  poets 
know  about  it  ?  It  was  a  poet  who  had  aroused  him  to  pity 
the  complaining  millions  of  men,  who  darken  in  labour  and  pain  ; 
and  how  much  good  had  he  been  to  them  or  to .  himself  ?  He 
had  wasted  a  great  career,  and  he  had  not  even  gratitude  to 
show  for  it.  The  complaining  millions  had  turned  against  him. 
Ditton  and  Luck  and  all  the  rest  were  his  enemies,  too.  Per- 
haps he  might  have  a  chance  to  revenge  himself  upon  them,  he 
thought,  as  he  thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  grasped  the 
revolver  once  more.  That  would  be  better  than  dropping  out 
by  the  blind  ways  provided  for  'the  heart-weary  player.  Pah  ! 
couldn't  he  get  that  nonsensical  stuff  out  of  his  head  !  Curse 
all  poets  and  poetry !  he  had  other  things  to  think  of.  Oh, 
there  were  opportunities  yet — for  many  things.  If  only  that 
throbbing  in  his  head  would  stop  for  a  moment,  that  he  might 
think  clearly. 

355 


Was  not  this  the  dawn  coming  up  grimly  out  of  the  east  ? 
Surely  there  was  a  cold  gleam  of  light  upon  the  deserted  pave- 
ments, and  the  orange  lamps  were  turning  a  sickly  yellow.  But 
how  cold  it  was,  and  how  the  wind  cut  him  to  the  very  heart ! 
He  was  a  fool  to  be  wandering  about  the  streets  of  the  city  in 
this  fashion.  Why  didn't  he  go  home  and  go  to  bed  ?  It  was 
sleep  that  he  needed — sleep  to  still  the  pain  and  the  misery. 
What  had  he  done  that  he  should  wander  about  like  a  vaga- 
bond ?  He  had  no  reason  to  be  afraid.  No  one  would  suspect 
him.  Dead  men  tell  no  tales.  Dead]  who  knew  that  Yates 
was  dead?  He  had  seen  him  stagger  and  fall,  but  no  one  could 
say  that  he  was  dead.  Nothing  but  failure — even  his  revenge 
might  be  that ;  and  then  he  would  have  to  drop  out  by  one  of 
the  blind  ways.  It  was  maddening  to  think  that  all  his  life  had 
gone  completely  astray — that  even  in  its  last  moments  it  was 
miserably  futile.  For  was  not  this  the  end  of  all  ?  It  would 
be  better  to  die  than  to  live  an  object  of  scorn  to  one's  self  and 
to  all  the  world.  The  whole  bitter  struggle  would  be  over  if  he 
put  the  weapon  he  was  fondling  to  his  head  ;  and  then  it  would 
not  matter  what  was  said  of  him.  Perhaps  it  was  the  only 
revenge  he  could  take.  Some  of  those  who  persecuted  him — 
who  were  determined  to  drag  him  down  —  might  have  the  re- 
morseful conviction  that  they  had  driven  him  to  it.  This  an- 
ticipation was  an  emotional  luxury  that  helped  to  console  him 
for  what  he  had  suffered. 

But,  no — why  should  he  acknowledge  defeat  before  it  was  in- 
evitable ?  He  had  revenged  himself  upon  Yates,  and  upon  the 
woman  who  had  spurned  him,  but  who  loved  Yates.  That  was 
something  worth  thinking  of ;  even  if  they  traced  the  deed  to 
his  hand  he  could  still  exult.  Pah !  what  folly  it  was  to  fancy 
that  the  truth  must  come  to  light.  No  one  had  seen  him ;  he 
was  sure  of  that,  or  he  would  have  been  followed  and  taken. 
And  although  he  had  threatened  Yates,  and  had  left  Livingston 
Place  in  anger,  so  that  they  might  suspect,  he  need  not  be  afraid 
of  mere  suspicion.  Besides,  if  his  aim  had  been  true,  if  his  enemy 
were  really  dead,  no  one  would  know  of  his  visit  at  all.  "  A 
Mysterious  Murder !" — the  words  seemed  to  dance  before  his 
eyes  in  big  black  letters,  just  as  they  would  appear  to  the 

356 


startled  gaze  of  all  the  city  in  the  morning.  Why,  it  was  morn- 
ing now,  and  the  story  had  already  gone  forth  from  the  great 
hurrying  presses !  And  what  would  be  said  if  he  should 
be  found  here,  wandering  about  with  the  very  weapon  in 
his  pocket  ?  What  a  fool  he  was !  Could  it  be  true  that  he 
was  losing  his  wits  ?  He  must  get  home  at  once.  The  gray 
light  glimmered  along  the  dull  rows  of  blank  and  tenant- 
less  windows  as  he  hurried  along.  As  he  turned  into  Hunt- 
ington  Avenue  from  the  tangle  of  South  End  streets  in  which 
he  had  lost  himself,  he  came  face  to  face  with  a  solitary  po- 
liceman. Curse  the  fellow  !  why  should  he  stare  at  him  in 
that  fashion?  Was  there  anything  strange  in  a  gentleman 
going  home  rather  later  than  usual — after  a  little  game  of  cards 
somewhat  unduly  prolonged  ?  '  The  excuse  rose  to  his  lips  al- 
most without  premeditation,  as  he  reflected  that  he  might  have 
to  account  for  himself  because  of  the  testimony  of  that  one  wit- 
ness. But  whose  business  was  it  where  he  had  been  ?  Suspi- 
cion and  proof  often  lie  a  long  way  apart ;  and  proof  would 
surely  be  impossible,  and  he  did  not  care  if  they  suspected  him. 
He  had  lost  so  much  that  losing  a  little  more  did  not  count. 
Everything  was  gone,  and  his  only  friend  in  the  world  was 
Maud,  whom  he  had  been  willing  to  throw  over  in  order  to  save 
himself.  Poor  Maud !  but  he  would  make  it  up  to  her.  She 
would  be  waiting  for  him,  and  she  would  go  to  the  end  of  the 
world  with  him. 

He  let  himself  into  the  house  very  softly,  and  crept  up-stairs 
to  his  own  rooms.  When  he  was  well  inside  he  fell  helplessly 
into  a  chair,  realizing  for  the  first  time  how  utterly  exhausted  he 
was.  Curse  that  clock !  why  did  it  tick  so  loudly,  beating  into 
his  brain  like  the  strokes  of  a  hammer  ?  His  conscience  did  not 
accuse  him ;  it  was  mere  justice  that  he  had  wrought  upon  the 
enemy  who  had  betrayed  him  ;  and  yet  the  clock  was  like  an 
accusing  conscience.  He  would  stop  it — by-and-by,  when  his 
head  ceased  to  swim  and  his  heart  to  beat  so  violently.  If  he 
could  only  find  oblivion  as  easily  as  he  could  do  that !  Oh 
yes !  there  were  blind  ways  provided — but  his  part  was  not  yet 
played.  When  the  shock  of  all  that  had  happened  was  over, 
and  he  could  think  more  clearly,  he  would  know  what  to  do. 

357 


But  they  must  not  find  him  here — these  enemies  of  his,  who 
would  try  even  yet  to  track  him  down.  He  rose  presently  and 
wandered  about  the  room,  putting  together  a  few  things  that  he 
must  take  with  him.  Curse  the  clock !  He  seized  it  in  a  sud- 
den fury  and  hurled  it  to  the  floor.  There  was  a  confused  rattle, 
and  the  sharp  sound  of  a  bell ;  then  it  was  silent.  He  gave  a 
sigh  of  relief  to  find  himself  free  from  its  unspoken  monitions; 
a  conscience  like  that  would  be  maddening.  Oh,  it  was  clear 
that  he  must  get  away  from  everything  which  reminded  him  of 
what  he  had  done.  He  went  into  his  chamber,  and  brought  out 
a  large  travelling-bag,  and  began  to  pack  his  clothing  in  it.  He 
had  paid  more  attention  to  clothes  of  late  than  had  been  his 
wont  in  the  old  days.  He  had  a  handsome  suit  of  evening 
clothes,  and  he  knew  their  use  flow.  He  also  had  a  black  frock- 
coat  faced  with  silk  and  elegantly  made — not  the  ill-fitting  gar- 
ment he  had  worn  on  the  occasion  of  his  first  appearance  at  Mrs. 
Chiltc-n's.  These  he  tumbled  rather  recklessly  into  the  bag, 
throwing  scarfs,  collars,  shirts,  and  other  articles  of  apparel  after 
them  in  dire  confusion.  What  was  the  use  of  being  too  par- 
ticular? He  had  more  important  matters  to  occupy  his  mind. 
He  did  not  yet  know  where  he  was  going.  But  why  should  he 
hurry  ?  he  asked  himself,  presently.  No  one  had  suspected  him 
yet ;  no  one  was  likely  to  interfere  with  him.  Perhaps  the 
story  would  not  come  out  in  the  Mail,  after  all.  The  story  ! 
— this  was  the  morning  it  was  to  appear ;  he  had  forgotten  that. 
He  must  send  out  and  buy  a  paper  when  the  sun  rose  and  the 
world  began  stirring  again.  And  if  the  story  were  there — what, 
then,  should  he  do  ?  He  had  a  vague  foreboding  of  the  conse- 
quences— of  reporters  from  the  other  papers  coming  to  "  inter- 
view "  him ;  of  acquaintances  passing  him  with  a  curt  nod  or 
cutting  him  dead ;  of  that  confounded  Thompson  rushing  up  full 
of  voluble  curiosity;  of  all  the  sickening  chatter  which  so  great  a 
scandal  would  create.  No,  he  could  not  face  all  that ;  it  would 
drive  him  wild. 

But  the  feeling  of  utter  exhaustion  overcame  him  again,  and 
he  flung  himself,  still  dressed,  upon  the  bed,  where  he  lay  for  an 
hour  or  more,  perfectly  conscious,  but  incapable  of  speech  or 
motion,  in  a  kind  of  waking  trance.  Vague  phantoms  flit- 

358 


ted  through  his  imagination,  and  yet  he  saw  with  perfect  dis- 
tinctness the  first  rays  of  the  sun  striking  the  curtained  panes, 
and  heard  the  cheerful  tumult  increasing  in  the  street  without. 
The  story  would  be  told  to  all  the  city  by  this  time.  He  must 
get  away  before  any  one  found  him ;  oh  yes,  he  must  do  that. 
He  rose  again,  and  catching  a  glimpse  of  himself  in  the  mirror, 
saw  how  pale  his  face  was,  how  wild  and  haggard  his  aspect. 
If  any  one  should  meet  him  now — well,  he  would  put  that  quite 
out  of  the  question.  He  took  the  bag  which  he  had  packed  so 
hastily  and  crept  down-stairs  again.  He  heard  a  door  close  and 
looked  back,  expecting  to  see  Thompson  hurrying  after  him — 
but  no,  there  was  no  one ;  he  would  escape  without  being  seen. 
He  hurried  down  the  steps  and  turned  sharply  into  a  by-street 
which  would  lead  him  across  the  railway  into  one  of  the  main 
thoroughfares,  where  a  man  walking  along  with  a  bag  would  at- 
tract no  attention  at  all.  He  had  gone  some  distance  before  he 
remembered  that  he  had  no  money — that  his  father  had  stripped 
him  of  everything.  He  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets  with 
tremulous  haste.  Nothing  but  a  little  silver  !  and  how  could 
he  leave  the  city  with  only  this  ?  Why,  he  must  eat  and  sleep 
somewhere ;  the  pangs  of  hunger  were  becoming  very  keen  at 
last,  in  spite  of  the  agitations  which  had  for  a  time  caused  him 
to  ignore  them.  And  he  had  nothing — his  father  had  robbed 
him  relentlessly.  He  gave  a  groan  of  helpless  rage  at  the 
thought.  He  could  not  stand  here  lamenting,  however ;  he 
must  walk  on,  he  must  get  somewhere  beyond  the  reach  of  his 
enemies. 

"How  much  you  vant  for  it?"  It  seemed  as  if  he  were 
still  in  a  dream  when  this  black-bearded,  ill-looking  man  leaned 
over  the  counter  to  ask  him  this  question.  "  Veil,  veil — how 
much  ?" 

Oh  yes,  he  knew  now ;  he  was  trying  to  pawn  the  clothes  in 
his  bag  so  that  he  might  have  the  money  to  go  far  from  this 
vile  city  where  every  man's  hand  was  against  him.  "How 
much  ?"  Baretta  repeated.  "  I  don't  know  how  much." 

"  I  give  you  four  tollars  and  a  kevarter — for  de  whole  lot." 

"  No,  you  don't,"  said  Baretta,  roused  to  some  consciousness 
of  what  he  was  doing  by  this  shameless  effort  to  overreach  him. 

359 


"  Five  tollars,  and  it  is  shust  the  very  pest  I  can  do." 

"  I  ain't  in  the  mood  for  charity,"  the  young  man  said,  an- 
grily, as  he  took  up  his  bag  and  left  the  shop. 

A  little  farther  on  he  came  to  a  sign  which  read,  "  Second- 
Hand  Clothes  Bought  and  Sold,"  and  it  occurred  to  him  that  he 
might  as  well  sell  his  possessions  outright,  since  he  would  surely 
never  come  back  to  redeem  them. 

The  dealer  was  a  mild-mannered  man,  but  he  examined  the 
garments  with  a  coldly  critical  eye.  "Dress-suits  are  hard  to 
do  much  with,"  he  said,  plaintively.  "  My  kind  of  customers 
don't  wear  'em  much." 

"  Well,  it  cost  eighty  dollars — it  ought  to  be  worth  some- 
thing." 

"  I  can  only  give  you  what  it's  worth  to  me.  Now,  this  other 
suit — I  might  do  better  with  that.  The  buttons  is  a  little  worn, 
and  there's  a  spot  on  the  vest — but  it  ain't  a  bad  suit.  I  might 
allow  you  eight  dollars  on  it." 

"  Eight  dollars !"  Baretta  cried.  "  I  don't  appreciate  that  kind 
of  joke." 

"Joke,  young  feller?  There  ain't  a  man  in  the  business 
would  give  you  as  much.  I'm  only  doing  it  as  a  kind  of  favour 
— understand  ?  If  you  don't  want  to  leave  'em,  take  'em  away." 

"But  the  dress-suit — the  bag — everything?  How  much 
would  that  be  ?  I'm  in  a  hurry,  and  I've  left  my  money  at 
home.  Perhaps  vou'd  rather  lend  on  them.  I'll  buy  them 
back." 

"  Oh,  well,  if  I  ain't  to  have  my  profit  I  can't  give  you  so 
much.  You  sell  'em  to  me,  and  you  can  buy  'em  back  to-mor- 
row or  when  you  like,  just  like  anybody  else.  See?" 

"  Well,  well — give  me  a  decent  price.  Good  God,  man  !  you 
don't  want  to  crush  me,  too,  just  because  every  one  else  is  con- 
spiring against  me.  Twenty-five  dollars  for  everything — come, 
that's  cheap  enough." 

"  Twenty-five  dollars  !  Look  here,  you're  lucky  to  get  fifteen. 
And  that's  more  than  I'd  offer  to  any  other  man." 

"  Fifteen  ?  Well,  give  me  fifteen,"  Baretta  cried,  impatiently. 
He  took  the  money  as  it  was  slowly  counted  out  to  him  with  a 
trembling  hand.  "  Oh,  you  old  fraud !"  he  said,  as  he  flung 

360 


down  the  bag  and  rushed  out,  slamming  the  door  behind 
him. 

But  fifteen  dollars  would  take  him  away,  and  after  that — well, 
perhaps  he  would  not  care  what  might  happen  to  him.  Where 
should  he  go  ?  This  was  the  question  which  he  asked  himself  as 
he  ate  his  breakfast  in  an  obscure  restaurant  not  very  far  from  Ar- 
ragon  Street,  a  place  where  he  had  been  well  known  in  the  old  days 
of  poverty  and  self-sacrifice.  He  had  bought  a  Mail,  and  the 
black  line — "  Is  he  Baron  Smolzow  ?" — was  staring  him  in  the 
face.  He  read  the  story  over — although  he  had  read  it  once  in 
Binney's  office — with  a  morbid  fascination.  Oh  yes,  it  was  all 
so  very  plain,  so  entirely  convincing.  He  might  call  it  a  lie, 
but  no  one  would  believe  him.  His  head  seemed  to  be  quite 
clear  now ;  all  the  wild  fancies  of  the  night  had  vanished ;  he 
could  think  calmly  of  what  he  must  do.  And  Yates  ? — he  found 
a  short  item  about  him.  "  Mysterious  Shooting  Case  !" — there 
were  only  a  few  lines  announcing  that  a  well-known  member  of 
the  Pilgrim  Club  had  been  shot  while  standing  at  the  window  of 
his  room  in  Livingstone  Place,  and  that  the  police  had  not  yet 
found  any  clew  to  the  assailant.  Of  course  they  had  not !  Ba- 
retta  said  to  himself,  with  a  triumphant  conviction  of  his  own 
cleverness.  But  although  he  was  safe  enough  on  that  score,  he 
must  get  away  from  the  city  ;  too  many  disagreeable  episodes 
would  follow  the  discovery  that  he  was  not  Baron  Smolzow. 

Yes,  he  would  take  the  boat  to  New  York  that  night — it  was 
the  cheapest  way  he  could  go,  and  with  only  fifteen  dollars  he 
must  look  after  every  penny.  It  was  after  eight  o'clock  when 
he  left  the  restaurant,  and  he  walked  over  to  Park  Square  Sta- 
tion to  buy  a  ticket.  He  found  that  the  boat -train  did  not 
leave  until  six  in  the  evening.  How  could  he  occupy  himself 
until  then  ?  And  would  there  not  be  danger  in  lingering  so 
long  ?  Some  one  might  be  on  his  track  already.  Perhaps 
Yates  was  not  dead — the  account  in  the  paper  only  spoke  of  him 
as  being  wounded — and  he  might  suspect  who  it  was  that  had 
fired  the  shot.  Oh  no,  they  should  not  find  him ;  he  would  go 
away  at  once.  He  consulted  the  time-table,  and  saw  that  a  train 
for  Fall  River  left  at  9.30.  He  would  take  it  and  spend  the  day 
at  a  place  where  surely  no  one  would  think  of  looking  for  him. 

361 


When  he  had  come  to  this  resolution  lie  went  into  the  waiting- 
room  and  took  a  seat  in  a  remote  corner,  pulling  his  hat  over  his 
eyes  and  holding  the  newspaper  which  he  had  been  carrying  so 
as  to  hide  his  face.  He  was  wishing  that  there  was  some  way  of 
letting  Maud  know.  She  would  come  with  him  if  he  asked  her — 
of  that  he  was  sure ;  and  loneliness  was  terrible  when  one  was 
haunted  by  evil  dreams.  Maud  would  love  him,  no  matter  what 
he  had  done ;  she  was  not  cold  and  proud  and  unforgiving  like 
that  other  woman.  Oh,  if  he  could  only  have  Maud  to  console 
him  !  He  ought  to  have  gone  to  her  sooner.  Well,  why  should 
he  not  go  now  ?  There  was  time  enough.  No  one  would  find 
him  there  ;  no  one  would  think  of  looking  for  him  in  a  dingy 
tenement  in  Roxbury.  He  would  run  the  risk — oh  yes,  he 
would  do  that  for  Maud's  sake.  He  started  up  full  of  this  new 
purpose.  But  before  he  had  got  to  the  door  he  remembered 
that  he  had  only  fifteen  dollars  in  his  pocket.  How  could  he 
care  for  Maud  with  that  ?  not  knowing,  too,  where  he  was  to 
get  any  more  when  it  was  gone.  His  first  plan  was  the  best 
— to  go  away  alone  and  send  for  her  afterwards.  She  would 
follow  him ;  she  would  be  faithful  to  the  last.  Poor  Maud  ! 
whom  he  had  been  so  willing  to  abandon. 

The  motion  of  the  train  made  him  drowsy.  He  leaned  back 
in  the  luxurious  seat  and  closed  his  eyes.  But  was  this  sleep — 
this  hideous  procession  of  spectres  dancing  before  his  eyes? 
There  was  a  red  light  over  everything ;  and  then  a  shot  rang  out 
in  the  still  air.  After  that  he  fell  down — down — over  the  face 
of  some  unfathomable  abyss  with  the  dark  waters  roaring  be- 
neath. He  awoke  with  a  start  to  find  that  the  train  had  stopped, 
and  that  some  of  the  passengers  were  getting  out. 

"  Is  this  Fall  River  ?"  he  asked  of  a  man  in  front  of  him. 

"  No,  Taunton,"  was  the  reply. 

Baretta  looked  at  the  man  a  second  time  and  saw  that  he  was 
shaking  his  head.  Confound  the  fellow  !  what  did  he  mean  by 
that?  "Oh,  you're  not  Baron  Smolzow,"  he  heard  him  saying. 

"  I  am  Baron  Smolzow !"  he  cried  angrily,  leaning  forward. 
Then  he  remembered  that  no  one  must  know  where  he  was  go- 
ing, and  corrected  himself.  "  No,  I'm  not,"  he  added. 

The  man  stared  at  him  amazed.  "  I  don't  care  who  you  are," 

362 


lie  said,  gruffly,  changing  bis  seat.    He  afterwards  told  the  brake- 
man  that  the  dark  foreign-looking  chap  was  crazy. 

But  Baretta  scowled  furiously,  and  muttered  that  here  was 
another  enemy  upon  whom  he  would  have  to  revenge  himself. 
Perhaps  it  was  some  one  who  was  dogging  his  footsteps,  who 
would  by-and-by  accuse  him  of  killing  Yates  and  try  to  take 
him  away.  But  he  knew  how  to  get  even  with  him,  he  thought, 
as  he  patted  affectionately  the  revolver  in  his  pocket.  His  father 
had  done  him  one  service,  at  least,  by  leaving  that  behind.  All  the 
people  in  the  car  were  shaking  their  heads  at  him,  damn  them  ! 
— but  he  would  have  his  revenge  upon  them  all.  He  was  Baron 
Smolzow  still,  whatever  they  might  say. 

Then  all  things  were  as  a  dream — a  dream  that  lasted  for  days 
and  nights  together. 

363 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 
"I   WILL   SAVE 

MAUD  went  back  to  her  dismal  room  at  Mrs.  Jackson's  with  a 
heart  full  of  wild  anxieties  and  fears.  What  could  have  hap- 
pened ?  He  had  gone  away,  and  had  left  no  word.  It  was  cruel. 
He  knew  that  she  was  waiting  for  him,  and  still  he  went  away 
without  letting  her  know.  What  had  she  done  to  be  treated 
like  this  ?  She  was  very  angry  at  first,  and  tried  to  forget  this 
faithless  lover,  who  had  deceived  her  for  the  second  time.  But 
no  such  easy  way  of  relief  was  open  to  her.  "  It  was  you  I 
loved  at  the  last "  he  had  said  as  he  rushed  out  into  the  darkness, 
oblivious  to  her  appealing  cry  ;  he  told  her  to  remember  that, 
as  if  she  were  likely  to  forget.  And  now  he  had  gone,  and  no 
one  knew  where,  and  had  sent  her  no  message  at  all.  Some- 
thing very  terrible  must  have  happened.  Perhaps  he  was  out 
of  his  head  again,  and  wandering  about  unconscious  of  what  he 
was  doing.  Maud  conjured  up  hundreds  of  alarming  contin- 
gencies, and  shed  many  a  bitter  tear  of  anguish.  Every  morning 
she  bought  a  newspaper  and  scanned  its  columns  with  dismal 
forebodings.  But  there  was  nothing  —  nothing!  Oh,  he  did 
not  realize  how  cruel  it  was  to  leave  her  thus  without  a  word. 

Of  course  she  knew  all  about  the  story  that  he  was  not  Baron 
Smolzow.  The  Mail  had  made  its  expected  sensation,  and  its 
rivals  were  diligently  employed  in  trying  to  pick  up  fresh  de- 
tails. Baretta's  conduct  was  scrutinized  with  pitiless  severity. 
Some  of  the  people  who  had  known  him  told  in  "inter- 
views" how  they  had  always  suspected  him,  had  always  thought 
him  to  be  an  adventurer.  Mr.  Orrin  Fox  Allen  was  especially 
voluble.  The  reporter  from  the  Banner  obtained  very  full  de- 

364 


tails  from  him,  including  a  vivid  description  of  the  Baron's  bad 
manners  on  various  occasions.  Mr.  Allen  drew  attention  to  the 
fact,  which  reflected  great  credit  upon  his  powers  of  discern- 
ment, that  he  himself  had  noticed  the  singular  resemblance  be- 
tween the  Baron  and  this  Herr  Ernil,  and  consequently  had  been 
fully  prepared  for  the  revelation.  Incidentally  he  permitted  the 
reporter  to  describe  with  great  fulness  his  own  charming  house 
at  Brookline,  as  well  as  to  convey  to  the  readers  of  the  Banner 
a  vivid  picture  of  his  methods  of  literary  work,  and  an  outline  of 
his  plans  for  enriching  still  further  the  intellectual  world.  Maud 
remembered  Mr.  Allen,  and  how  agreeable  she  thought  he  was 
that  evening  when  she  met  him  in  the  car  on  the  way  to  Chest- 
nut Hill.  But  now  she  felt  that  she  detested  him.  How  mean 
he  was  to  Frank,  to  say  those  horrid  things  about  him !  The 
point  of  some  of  Mr.  Allen's  refined  sarcasm  was  lost  on  Maud, 
but  she  understood  well  enough  that  it  was  horrid.  Was  this 
why  Frank  had  gone  away,  because  he  could  not  endure  such 
accusations  as  these  ?  He  ought  not  to  care  ;  he  would  be  far 
happier  to  give  up  all  these  people  who  only  made  fun  of  him. 
She  pitied  Baretta  rather  than  blamed  him.  Her  moral  nature 
was  defective  in  some  respects,  perhaps,  and  she  could  not 
realize  the  enormity  of  his  offence.  He  had  only  tried  to  be  a 
baron  in  order  to  put  himself  upon  terms  of  equality  with  the 
swells,  to  whom  he  was  really  so  far  superior.  It  was  silly  of 
him,  but  where  was  the  great  harm  in  it,  after  all  ?  Her  judg- 
ment might  not  have  been  quite  so  lenient  had  she  loved  him  less. 
There  were  some  things  in  the  papers,  however,  which  cut  her  to 
the  heart.  It  was  the  Banner  which  she  read,  and  that  journal  was 
the  most  active  of  all  in  its  efforts  to  outdo  the  Mail  by  adding 
to  the  sensation.  Consequently  it  took  the  paragraph  in  the 
Weekly  Packet  which  had  been  so  offensive  to  the  friends  of 
Miss  Lawrence  and  constructed  out  of  it  a  very  touching  ro- 
mance. The  Banner  did  not  care  for  the  opinions  of  the  Back 
Bay ;  it  made  no  pretensions  to  "  tone,"  like  the  Mail.  So  Mil- 
dred's name,  despite  the  attempt  of  Yates  to  prevent  it,  was 
dragged  into  the  story  and  made  the  subject  of  idle  or  mali- 
cious comment.  The  pain  of  knowing  it  was  spared  to  Philip, 
but  others  were  not  so  fortunate.  Yet  perhaps  not  even  Mildred 

365 


herself  suffered  more  acutely  under  this  affliction  than  Maud 
did.  Oh,  how  could  it  be  true?  she  asked  herself.  But,  of 
course,  it  was  not  true — that  he  had  been  as  good  as  engaged  to 
Miss  Lawrence  all  the  time  he  was  protesting  fidelity  to  her ! 
Had  he  not  thrown  away  all  his  prospects,  defied  his  father  and 
everything,  simply  for  her  sake  ?  and  why  should  he  have  done 
that  if  he  had  not  loved  her?  She  would  not  believe  those  lies 
in  the  paper  for  a  moment.  Nevertheless,  she  felt  herself  forced 
after  a  time  to  yield  an  unwilling  credence  to  the  tale.  So  much 
that  Baretta  had  said  and  done  confirmed  it.  Oh  yes — he  had 
loved  her  at  the  last,  but  it  was  only  when  he  saw  himself  alto- 
gether without  hope  of  winning  any  one  else.  Poor  Maud  could 
not  follow  in  imagination  all  the  workings  of  her  faithless  lover's 
heart,  but  she  seemed  to  have  somehow  an  intuitive  perception 
of  just  what  he  meant  by  the  wild  words  that  had  come  from 
his  lips  as  he  rushed  out  into  the  darkness.  At  the  last !  he 
had  loved  her  only  at  the  last,  when  everything  had  slipped 
from  his  grasp  ;  he  would  not  have  loved  her  if  he  had  been 
free  to  choose.  This  was  the  bitterest  pang  of  all.  And  yet 
how  could  she  suspect  him,  when  he  had  sacrificed  so  much  for 
her  sake  at  a  time  when  he  might  have  chosen  ?  Thus  her 
thoughts  travelled  in  a  never-ending  circle  of  alternate  hope  and 
doubt.  But  whether  he  loved  her  or  not,  she  loved  him ;  and 
she  would  do  anything  to  help  him  if  he  would  come  back  to 
her  and  end  this  miserable  suspense.  Oh,  where  was  he  ?  and 
why  had  he  left  her  without  a  word  ? 

"  Well,  are  you  goin'  to-morrer,  or  ain't  you  ?"  Mrs.  Jackson 
asked  her  one  evening.  "  No,  I  can't  come  in.  Goodness  !  how 
them  stairs  do  tucker  me  out." 

"  Going  ?  Well,  I  guess  I'll  have  to  go.  I  can't  stay  and  pay 
no  four  dollars  a  week — that's  what  you  said  you  were  going  to 
charge  me." 

"  Hm !  I  thought  you  was  waitin'  for  your  beau,"  was  Mrs. 
Jackson's  comment.  "  It  ain't  no  four  dollars,"  she  added.  "  I 
was  put  out  when  I  said  that." 

"  But  I  must  go  somewhere — I  must  do  something !"  cried 
Maud.  "  And  I  don't  propose  to  stay  with  a  person  who  says  I 
ain't  decent." 

366 


"  Bother  !"  Mrs.  Jackson  cried,  sharply.  She  had  not  sought 
the  solace  of  the  gin  bottle  since  the  evening  when  she  had  had 
one  of  her  "  tantrums,"  as  her  husband  called  them,  and  her  not 
unkindly  natural  disposition  had  reasserted  itself.  "  What's  the 
good  in  takin'  a  body  up  so  short  ?  You're  all  straight  enough 
— do  you  s'pose  I  can't  tell  the  difference  1  But  what's  become 
of  your  beau,  anyway  ?" 

Maud's  lips  quivered  and  the  tears  rose  to  her  eyes.  "  Oh, 
I  don't  know,  I  don't  know  !"  she  cried.  "  And  I'm  so  miser- 
able !  Oh,  Mrs.  Jackson,  do  you  think  anything  has  happened 
to  him  ?" 

"  How  do  I  know  ?"  But  in  spite  of  the  unsympathetic  form 
of  the  response  the  worthy  landlady's  interest  was  awakened. 
She  advanced  over  the  threshold  a  few  steps,  and  after  a  mo- 
ment of  hesitation  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  "  P'raps 
if  I  knew  more  about  it — "  Then  she  paused  and  looked  at 
Maud  expectantly. 

No  doubt  the  girl  would  have  preferred  another  confidant, 
but  it  was  quite  impossible  that  she  should  keep  all  her  worries 
to  herself  any  longer.  It  would  drive  her  wild  to  stay  on  here 
day  after  day,  tormented  by  vague  fears,  yet  hoping  against 
hope.  And  so  in  a  confused  and  uncertain  way,  but  still  plainly 
enough,  she  told  her  story. 

"  My  !  my  !"  was  what  Mrs.  Jackson  said  when  she  had  heard 
it.  "  Well,  if  I  was  you  I  wouldn't  have  nothin'  to  do  with  a 
feller  like  that." 

"  How  do  you  know  he's  to  blame  ?"  asked  Maud,  indignantly. 
"  I  think  they've  treated  him  shamefully — pretending  to  think 
so  much  of  him,  and  then  putting  things  in  the  papers  about  him 
just  because  he  isn't  a  baron.  You'd  think  to  hear  that  Mr  Allen 
talk  that  butter  wouldn't  melt  in  his  mouth — the  mean  thing  ! 
to  say  what  he  did  about  Frank.  And  then,  there's  Mr.  Yates, 
who  's  always  hated  him  and  tried  to  ruin  him.  Frank  has  told  me 
all  about  it  hundreds  of  times." 

"  Yates — where  did  I  hear  something  about  a  feller  named 
Yates.  That  was  the  name,  sure."  Mrs.  Jackson  slowly 
rubbed  one  hand  back  and  forth  over  the  pillow,  as  she  tried  to 
remember.  "  Oh,  that's  the  man  as  was  shot,"  she  said,  looking 

367 


up.  "  My  husband  was  readin'  all  about  it  to  me.  He  used  to 
work  once  on  his  place  to  Lexington ;  that's  how  he  was  so  in- 
terested." 

"  Shot  ?  Mr.  Yates  shot  ?"  gasped  Maud,  turning  very  pale. 
"  Oh,  there  must  be  some  mistake." 

"  Well,  I  guess  not.  It's  all  in  the  paper.  An'  he  knows  the 
family  well  enough." 

Maud  sank  back  in  her  chair  trembling,  and  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands.  What  horrible  suspicion  was  this  which  had  assailed  her  ? 
It  was  too  full  of  terror  to  be  put  into  words.  And  yet  he  had 
talked  so  often  of  revenge  upon  Yates — he  had  gone  away  that 
night  in  such  a  desperate  mood — so  unlike  himself ;  quite  out 
of  his  head.  But  he  had  gone,  and  he  had  not  come  back. 
Why  should  he  stay  away  unless  he  had  some  awful  secret  to 
hide  ?  "  I — I'm  feeling  kind  of  queer,"  she  said,  looking  up 
with  frightened  eyes.  She  rose  to  her  feet,  staggered,  and  fell  to 
the  floor  in  a  dead  faint. 

Oh,  how  could  she  think  of  such  a  thing  ?  She  would  not  be- 
lieve it  for  a  moment.  This  was  what  she  told  herself  presently, 
after  Mrs  Jackson  had  left  her  lying  upon  the  bed,  with  a  stern 
injunction  not  to  try  to  get  up  until  she  came  back.  "  You're 
jest  beat  out  with  all  this  worry,"  Mrs.  Jackson  had  said.  It 
must  be  because  she  was  beat  out  that  she  should  cherish  such 
wild  ideas,  give  way  to  such  improbable  surmises.  Frank 
could  not  have  done  that.  He  was  not  a  murderer ;  the  very 
word  made  her  shudder.  She  would  get  the  papers  and  read 
the  whole  story ;  it  was  strange  she  had  not  noticed  it  before : 
the  name  of  Yates  was  as  familiar  to  her  as  it  was  to  Mrs. 
Jackson.  Surely,  everything  would  be  explained  in  the  papers. 
They  might  have  found  out  by  this  time  who  the  murderer  was, 
since  it  could  not  be  Frank.  Oh,  how  wicked  she  was  to  sus- 
pect him  at  all,  without  knowing  anything  of  the  circum- 
stances !  The  man  who  had  treated  Frank  so  badly  must  have 
other  enemies.  But  where  was  Frank  himself  all  this  time  ?  and 
why  did  he  torture  her  so  ?  She  could  not  keep  back  the  tears 
as  she  lay  there  thinking  how  wretched  she  was. 

"  I  guess  you'll  want  to  read  that  about  Mr.  Yates,"  Mrs.  Jack- 
son was  saying.  Maud  opened  her  eyes  with  a  start.  She  must 

368 


have  been  dozing-  a  little,  and  yet  it  seemed  but  a  few  minutes 
since  the  landlady  had  left  her.     "  You  seem  to  know  him." 

"  Oh  no  ! — but  I  have  heard  of  him,"  said  Maud,  eagerly. 

"  I  wondered  how  you  was  a  friend  of  his.  But  you  seem  to 
have  a  good  many  friends  —  among  the  men.  Well,  well!" 
Mrs.  Jackson  added,  seeing  the  girl  flush  angrily ;  "  I  didn't 
mean  no  harm  by  that.  You're  awful  touchy.  You  can  git  the 
whole  story — I  keep  the  paper  a  good  while,  and  here  it  is  for 
a  week  back.  The'  ain't  any  satisfaction  to  me  in  readin'  to- 
day's news  until  I've  caught  up,  and  sometimes  I'm  a  whole 
week  behind." 

"  Thank  you,"  Maud  said.  "It's  strange  I  didn't  notice  it  my- 
self." 

"  So  it's  your  beau  that's  the  Baron  they're  talkin'  about,  is 
it  ?  Well,  I  should  say  he  was  a  bad  lot,  and  it's  my  advice  to 
you  to  have  no  more  to  do  with  him." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  ?"  cried  Maud,  sitting  up.  "  You've 
only  read  those — those  lies." 

"  Oh  yes,  stick  up  for  him — do !  Such  fools  as  women  is. 
Oh,  I've  seen  'em  do  it  afore — an'  they  was  allus  sorry  enough 
arterwards.  Don't  tell  me  !"  said  Mrs.  Jackson,  sharply,  as  she 
turned  to  go  down-stairs  again. 

Such  fools  as  women  were  !  Well,  perhaps  she  had  been  one, 
Maud  thought ;  but  if  that  were  so  her  folly  had  wrought  her 
misery  enough.  She  had  suffered  everything  for  Frank's  sake, 
who  did  not  care  for  her  at  all.  If  he  had  cared  he  would  not 
have  left  her  without  a  word.  No,  it  was  that  other  girl 
whom  he  had  really  loved  all  along.  Even  the  papers  were  talk- 
ing about  it,  and  why  should  she  believe  his  denials  ?  She  re- 
called, with  a  heart  full  of  bitterness,  the  afternoon  when  she  had 
seen  Miss  Lawrence  coming  down  the  steps — her  carriage  wait- 
ing for  her,  and  that  horrible  man  who  called  himself  Frank's 
father  bowing  low  before  her.  A  girl  like  that,  rich  and  real 
stylish — how  absurd  it  was  to  suppose  that  Frank  would  give 
her  up !  It  had  been  nothing  but  a  pretence  all  the  time.  He 
had  shrunk  back  with  a  look  of  terror  when  he  saw  her  coming 
along  the  pavement.  She  had  been  a  fool  to  be  deluded  even 
for  a  moment.  And  now  Miss  Lawrence  had  cast  him  off ; 

2  A  369 


there  had  been  an  indignant  denial  of  the  report  of  their  engage- 
ment amid  the  flood  of  idle  gossip  in  the  Banner.  Well,  he  de- 
served it — she  was  not  sorry  for  him  the  least  bit.  "  But  oh, 
Frank,  how  could  you  treat  me  so  ?"  she  moaned. 

The  shooting  of  Yates !  she  was  forgetting  about  that.  She 
took  up  the  printed  sheets  with  a  trembling  hand  and  scanned 
them  eagerly.  There  was  little  in  them,  after  all.  It  was  posi- 
tive that  he  had  been  shot  by  some  one  in  the  street.  The  wound 
was  in  his  breast,  and  he  had  obviously  been  standing  at  the 
window — which  was  open — where  he  had  fallen.  He  had  been 
unconscious,  and  part  of  the  time  delirious,  ever  since,  and  it  was 
impossible  to  get  any  information  from  him.  Then  followed 
descriptions  of  his  engaging  personal  qualities,  the  popularity 
which  he  enjoyed  at  his  clubs,  his  fine  estate  at  Lexington,  and 
the  amount  of  money  he  had  inherited  from  his  father.  "  It 
was  not  known,"  asserted  the  reporter,  "  that  Mr.  Yates  had  an 
enemy  in  the  world."  Thus  the  case  was  a  very  strange  one 
throughout.  No  one  had  seen  any  visitors  entering  or  leaving 
his  rooms  during  the  evening  of  the  "tragedy" — this  was  a 
favourite  word  with  the  Banner  —  although  the  man  who  occu- 
pied the  adjoining  room  suddenly  recollected  that  he  had  heard 
loud  voices  not  long  before  the  shot  was  fired.  But  he  had  not 
paid  much  attention  ;  it  was  no  business  of  his  to  interfere  in 
his  neighbour's  quarrels.  It  was  the  shot  which  had  first 
startled  him ;  and  then  rushing  out  he  had  found  Mr.  Yates, 
bleeding  and  unconscious,  before  the  open  window.  lie  was 
very  sure  that  the  weapon  must  have  been  fired  from  the  street. 
Both  the  cabmen  who  had  rushed  up-stairs  in  response  to  his 
summons  were  of  the  same  opinion ;  and  they  were  positive 
that  they  had  seen  or  heard  no  one  leaving  the  building,  although 
they  had  hurried  in  from  the  corner  of  the  street  before  they 
were  called,  the  noise  having  naturally  at  once  attracted  their 
attention.  There  were  others  who  had  more  or  less  to  say 
about  the  affair,  but  their  remarks  were  not  enlightening.  Thus 
the  space  occupied  by  Philip's  affairs  dwindled  from  day  to  day. 
The  statement  that  the  ball  had  missed  the  left  lung,  but  that 
the  recovery  of  the  patient  was  still  doubtful,  was  the  bulletin 
of  yesterday.  And  this  morning  ?  Oh,  she  would  have  to  wait 

370 


until  night,  when  Mr.  Jackson  brought  home  to-day's  paper,  to 
know.  He  might  die  !  was  the  awful  thought  that  haunted 
Maud ;  and  could  it,  oh,  could  it  be  Frank  who  had  killed 
him? 

It  was  nearly  six  o'clock  when  she  heard  Mrs.  Jackson's  voice 
calling  her  from  below,  and  hurried  down-stairs  in  response  to 
the  summons.  "There's  another  feller  this  time,"  Mrs.  Jackson 
said,  grimly,  "  settin'  in  my  parlour  waitin'  for  you.  I  wa'n't 
goin'  to  send  him  up — don't  you  think  it." 

Maud's  heart  beat  so  violently  at  this  announcement  that  she 
hardly  noticed  the  slur.  She  went  to  the  parlour  door,  but 
paused  a  moment  with  her  hand  upon  the  knob.  She  was  con- 
scious of  a  miserable  foreboding  of  evil.  What  could  any  man 
want  with  her,  unless  he  had  something  to  say  about  Frank  ? 

"  I'm  sorry  to  trouble  you,  miss,"  said  her  visitor,  politely,  as 
she  entered.  "  You're  Maud  Dolan,  I  presume  ?  Well,  do  you 
know  a  man  who  calls  himself  Baron  Smolzow  ?" 

"  I  know  Mr.  Baretta,"  said  Maud,  stiffly.  She  was  trembling 
with  fright,  but  she  would  not  let  him  know,  whoever  he  was. 

"  Well,  it's  the  same  fellow,  I  guess.  Do  you  know  where 
he  is  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Now,  look  here,  miss,"  said  the  man,  "  I  don't  want  to  make 
you  any  trouble,  as  I  say,  but  this  is  a  serious  case.  I'm  an  in- 
spector of  police — " 

But  Maud  interrupted  him  with  a  scream.  "  Oh,  he  didn't  do 
it !  I'm  sure  he  couldn't  have  done  it !" 

"  Ah  !"  the  inspector  said,  dryly.  "  It  looks  rather  black  for 
him,  I  must  say.  We'll  have  to  summon  you  as  a  witness  — 
when  we've  got  him.  But  I  tell  you,  miss,"  he  went  on,  in  a 
kindly  tone,  "  it'll  be  better  for  you  to  tell  me  the  truth." 

"  The  truth  ?"  asked  Maud.  She  was  very  pale,  but  her  lips 
were  firmly  set,  and  she  looked  at  her  questioner  defiantly. 
"  There  ain't  no  truth  about  it.  I  don't  know  where  Mr.  Baretta 
is,  or  what  you  want  him  for.  And  if  I  did  I  wouldn't  tell." 

"  It's  a  serious  charge,  you  know — shooting  a  man,  who  may 
die  any  minute.  Oh,  I  like  your  pluck,  young  woman,  but  you 
can't  fool  me." 

371 


"  I  haven't  seen  Mr.  Baretta  for  a  week.  I  don't  know  where 
he  is.  And  I  won't  believe  anything  you  say  against  him." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  inspector.  "  You'll  have  to  tell  some 
day.  Good-evening.  I  shall  know  where  to  find  you,"  he  add- 
ed, coming  back.  "  Just  you  remember  that.  I'm  sorry,  miss, 
that  you  ain't  willing  to  help  us." 

But  there  was  some  one  whom  she  was  willing  to  help,  Maud 
said  to  herself  after  the  inspector  had  gone.  She  had  almost 
forgotten  all  her  doubts  about  her  lover's  fidelity  in  the  pres- 
ence of  this  new  danger.  It  was  terrible  to  think  of  him  as  a 
murderer;  she  felt  that  she  should  shrink  from  him  with  dread 
and  loathing  if  he  ever  came  back.  Oh,  it  was  better,  far  bet- 
ter, never  to  see  him  again  !  But  they  must  not  find  him ;  that 
would  be  worst  of  all.  There  must  be  some  way  to  prevent  it 
— something  that  even  a  poor  girl  like  her  could  do.  She  went 
back  to  her  room  and  pondered  long  and  deeply.  Then  sud- 
denly she  arose  with  a  desperate  look,  and  putting  on  her  hat 
and  sacque  went  out  into  the  street.  "  I  guess  she'll  be  sur- 
prised," Maud  muttered  bitterly  as  she  hurried  along,  "  but  I  will 
save  him !"  She  did  not  notice  that  a  man  who  had  been  stand- 
ing on  the  pavement  was  now  following  her.  She  had  forgot- 
ten all  about  the  inspector's  remark  that  he  would  know  where 
to  find  her. 

372 


"  OH,  you  needn't  tell  me !"  Daisy  said,  her  eyes  glistening 
with  tears  and  her  voice  trembling  as  she  spoke.  "  I  know  per- 
fectly well  who  did  it  —  that  miserable  Baron  of  yours !  whom 
you've  all  made  fools  of  yourselves  about,  though  Philip  was  a 
gentleman,  and  he  wasn't.  And  now  he's  dying,  and — and  he'll 
never  know  how  we  feel  about  it,"  she  went  on,  with  a  sob. 
"  Oh,  Mildred,  I'd  like  to  shoot  the  wretch  myself !" 

"  I — I  don't  think  you're  very  kind,  Daisy,"  said  Mildred,  very 
humbly,  and  in  a  voice  that  trembled  a  little,  too.  "  If  I  have 
made  a  mistake,  I  have  been  punished  for  it — more  than  any  of 
the  rest  of  them.  You  don't  suppose  I  like  to  have  my  name 
bandied  about  in  the  papers,  do  you  ?  As  for  Phil — Mr.  Yates 
— you've  no  right  to  hint  that  it  is  my  fault." 

"  I  didn't  hint  any  such  thing.  I  don't  suppose  you  knew 
your  Baron  was  a  murderer  as  well  as  a  swindler." 

"  Daisy  !"  Mildred  cried.  "  We  don't  know  anything  about 
it — we  have 'no  right  to  suspect  him.  It's  bad  enough  with- 
out that.  And  now  that  Philip — Mr.  Yates — may  be  dying — 
Oh,  Daisy  !"  and  here  Mildred  began  to  cry,  "  he  will  never 
know — " 

"  That  you  forgave  him,  dear,"  said  Daisy,  gently.  "  That  is, 
if  there  was  anything  to  forgive,"  she  could  not  help  adding. 

But  Mildred  rose  hastily,  and  dried  her  eyes,  a  little  angry 
that  she  should  thus  have  betrayed  herself.  "  That  isn't  what 
I  meant  at  all,"  she  murmured  faintly.  She  remembered  now 
that  she  had  of  late  more  than  half  suspected  Daisy  of  being  in 
love  with  Philip  herself,  and  the  recollection  was  an  additional 

373 


source  of  embarrassment.  It  would  be  a  part  of  the  irony  of 
Fate  if  this  were  so. 

Perhaps  Daisy,  too,  was  a  little  vexed  with  her  friend,  for 
some  reason  or  other.  It  could  not  be  because  Mildred  still 
cared  for  Philip,  and  suffered  so  acutely  from  the  reflection  that 
she  had  been  unkind  to  him.  She  had  herself  been  trying  to 
reconcile  them  all  along.  And  yet  she  was  conscious  of  a 
wretched  feeling  of  dissatisfaction.  "  I  never  could  xinderstand 
you,"  Daisy  said  a  little  sharply  as  the  two  went  off  to  dress  for 
dinner. 

But  even  Daisy  did  not  know  all  that  Mildred  had  suffered  on 
Philip's  account.  If  she  had  really  misjudged  him,  she  had 
atoned  for  it.  She  had  loved  him  all  along,  although  she  had 
said  that  she  could  not  forgive  him.  It  is  commonly  thought 
that  love  must  mean  forgiveness,  in  spite  of  numberless  instances 
to  the  contrary.  Our  bitterest  judges  are  our  friends,  not  our 
enemies ;  because  in  disappointing  the  ideal  which  our  friends 
have  cherished  of  us  we  do  them  a  wrong  hard  to  overlook, 
while  our  enemies  have  no  such  ideal,  and  take  a  certain  satisfac- 
tion in  finding  their  suspicions  justified.  He  was  a  wise  man 
who  said  that  a  man's  worst  foes  shall  be  they  of  his  own  house- 
hold. It  was  the  very  sincerity  of  her  love  for  Philip  which  had 
made  Mildred's  disappointment  in  him  so  keen,  which  had  made 
first  his  indifference  and  then  his  anger  so  exasperating.  It  was, 
perhaps,  impossible  that  he  should  see  why  a  single  quarrel  must 
separate  them  forever,  but  it  had  set  its  ineffaceable  mark  upon 
her  soul ;  and  what  was  the  use  of  merely  pretending  that  one 
could  forget  ?  But  in  the  shadow  of  death  all  the  perspectives 
of  life,  all  its  relative  values,  seem  somehow  to  be  changed.  To 
think  that  Philip  was  dying,  and  that  he  would  never  know  how- 
much  she  loved  him ! — this  it  was  that  tortured  Mildred,  who 
was  helpless  to  save  him.  She  did  not  understand  the  change, 
but  she  knew  that  she  would  give  all  she  had  in  the  world  to  be 
able  to  whisper  in  his  ear  her  brief  but  potent  confession.  If 
he  should  live,  after  all !  but  that  was  something  which  seemed 
to  her  anxious  imaginings  quite  incredible.  Oh  yes — she  had 
been  punished  only  too  severely,  and  there  was  no  escape  from 
her  punishment.  The  doctors  had  pretended  to  be  hopeful; 

374 


they  said  he  had  a  good  constitution  ;  but  what  did  they  know — 
how  could  they  tell  ?  And  he  would  die  and  never  know — this 
was  the  burden  of  that  half  confession  to  Daisy. 

What  she  did  not  tell  Daisy  was  that  she  had  been  to  Philip's 
rooms,  and  that  Philip's  mother  had  rebuffed  her  cruelly.  It 
was  one  of  those  opportunities  for  revenge  which  only  the 
weaker  sex  is  strong  enough  to  take  advantage  of.  Daisy  had 
been  twice  to  inquire  after  him,  and  had  seen  Mrs.  Yates,  who 
had  come  in  from  Lexington  because  Philip  could  not  be  moved 
at  present.  But  Mildred's  anxiety  could  not  be  satisfied  by  her 
friend's  reports.  She  felt  that  she  herself  must  go ;  perhaps 
she  thought  of  it  as  in  some  way  an  atonement  for  the  past. 
It  was  not  a  pleasant  task,  but  she  would  not  shrink  from  it. 
She  knew  that  Philip's  mother  cherished  no  amiable  feelings 
towards  her,  but  surely  at  such  a  moment  the  past  might  be 
forgotten.  Once,  at  least,  she  and  Philip  had  loved  each  other, 
and  it  would  be  monstrous  if  she  should  let  him  go  down  to  his 
grave  and  make  no  sign  of  reconciliation.  But  no,  oh  no  ! — it 
could  not  be  so  bad  as  that! — he  would  live,  and  would  know 
that  she  had  forgiven  him. 

It  was  anything  but  easy,  however,  to  go  to  Livingstone  Place 
and  ask  for  Mrs.  Yates.  Mildred  waited  below  in  the  carriage, 
sending  up  the  footman  with  a  bunch  of  roses  and  a  note. 
"  Dear  Mrs.  Yates,"  it  ran,  "  may  I  see  you  just  for  a  moment  ? 
I  am  very  anxious — this  is  a  great  grief  to  all  his  friends."  It 
was  not  very  coherent,  but  when  Mrs.  Yates  looked  at  the  signa- 
ture she  knew  what  it  meant,  and  for  a  moment  she  had  an 
inclination  to  relent.  Perhaps  she  had  been  somewhat  unjust 
to  the  girl,  after  all ;  she  knew  herself  what  it  meant  to  be  dis- 
appointed in  Philip.  Then  the  thought  that  this  terrible  thing 
might  never  have  happened  but  for  Mildred  hardened  her  heart 
again.  The  broken  utterances  of  Philip's  delirious  moments 
had  made  it  all  very  plain  to  her.  Just  who  the  would-be  mur- 
derer was,  or  what  his  motive  had  been,  she  did  not  know ;  but 
it  was  for  Mildred's  sake  that  her  son  had  incurred  his  enmity. 
It  was  this  girl  who  had  changed  him  so,  and  who  might  be  the 
means  of  taking  him  away  from  her  forever.  So  Mrs.  Yates  sat 
down  and  wrote,  "  I  beg  you  will  excuse  me,"  and  sent  the  man 

375 


back  with  this  answer.  She  would  have  liked  to  bid  him  return 
the  roses,  only  that  she  could  not  humiliate  Mildred  before  a 
servant.  But  she  threw  them  into  the  fire  and  saw  their  fresh 
loveliness  shrivel  and  blacken  with  the  sweet  consciousness  that 
she  was  having  her  revenge. 

Poor  Mildred !  she  drove  away  with  burning  cheeks,  angry 
with  Philip's  mother,  and  with  herself  for  inviting  this  rebuff. 
How  cruel,  how  unjust  it  was  to  treat  her  so  !  and  now  he  would 
never  even  know  that  she  was  sorry.  She  shed  a  few  hot  tears 
of  mingled  grief  and  vexation.  Of  course  she  would  not  tell 
Daisy  what  had  happened ;  she  would  a  thousand  times  rather 
suffer  under  the  imputation  of  being  cold  and  unforgiving.  But 
it  was  a  little  hard  that  Daisy  should  have  had  a  privilege  which 
she  had  been  refused.  Philip  would  think  that  only  Daisy 
cared  enough  for  him  to  come  and  ask  after  him.  But  what 
difference  did  that  make  ?  If  he  lived,  it  would  be  Daisy's  part 
to  console  him.  If  he  lived ! — oh,  but  he  must  live  ;  she  could  not 
bear  to  think  of  that  other  dreadful  possibility.  And  then  to 
have  Daisy  reproach  her  for  not  caring !  No  wonder  that  she 
was  vexed  with  her  friend,  and  went  down  to  dinner  feeling  very 
miserable  indeed.  "A  young  person?"  she  repeated, mechan- 
ically, when  the  man  came  in  just  as  dessert  was  being  served. 
"  And  waiting  in  the  hall  ?  Take  her  into  the  reception-room, 
and  say  I  will  see  her  presently.  Perhaps  it  is  one  of  your  pen- 
sioners, papa,"  she  added,  trying  to  speak  lightly. 

Meanwhile  Maud  was  waiting  for  her  with  anxious  expect- 
ancy, clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands  nervously  and  listening 
with  a  throbbing  heart  to  the  solemn  ticking  of  the  tall  clock  at 
the  foot  of  the  staircase.  The  strange  luxuriousness  of  her  sur- 
roundings oppressed  her.  Perhaps  she  had  done  wrong  in  com- 
ing. And  yet  how  could  she  stay  away  when  so  much  was  at 
stake  ?  It  was  all  she  could  do  for  Frank's  sake — to  appeal  to 
this  young  lady  whom  he  had  loved,  and  who  was  rich  and  power- 
ful and  could  help  him.  Maud  hated  her  because  she  had  tried 
to  take  him  away ;  nothing  could  make  her  believe  that  she  had 
not  tried  to  do  that.  Nevertheless,  she  would  save  him  by  ap- 
pealing to  Miss  Lawrence.  Oh,  it  was  impossible  that  Frank 
could  be  a  murderer !  But  he  was  poor  and  friendless,  and  the 

376 


law  was  never  just  to  such  as  he.  How  very  rich  Miss  Law- 
rence must  be  to  live  in  such  a  beautiful  house  !  Maud  reflect- 
ed bitterly  upon  the  hopelessness  of  her  own  position  as  she  sat 
there  and  waited.  Was  it  strange  that  Frank  should  have  want- 
ed to  give  her  up  ?  But  he  had  loved  her  at  the  last — oh  yes, 
she  would  always  remember  that.  And  she  would  tell  her  so — 
the  girl  who  had  despised  him,  although  she  had  been  so  will- 
ing to  rob  another  of  his  love.  When  Mildred  came  into  the 
room,  however,  she  merely  rose  and  stared  at  her,  incapable  of 
speech — Miss  Lawrence  was  so  dignified,  she  was  so  far  above 
the  level  of  a  poor  shop-girl. 

'_'  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?"  Mildred  asked,  graciously. 

Then  Maud's  long  pent-up  emotion  found  utterance.  "  For 
me  ?  Nothing !"  she  said,  with  a  glance  of  sullen  defiance. 
"  Do  you  think  I'd  come  to  you  for  that  ?  But,  oh,  it's  him 
that's  in  trouble — there's  been  a  man  looking  for  him,  and  if 
they  find  him —  He  didn't  do  it ;  I  tell  you  he  didn't !  You  took 
him  away  from  me,  and  I  hate  you !"  Maud  cried,  stamping  her 
foot  passionately ;  "  and  once  I  thought  I'd  rather  have  died 
than  come  to  you  to  ask  for  anything.  But  to  think  that  he 
should  be  in  trouble  like  this,  and  all  for  my  sake — and  no  one 
knows  where  he  is — he  may  be  dead,  though  you  wouldn't  care 
for  that !  Oh,  can't  you  do  something  to  help  me  find  him  and 
save  him  from  them  ?" 

This  wild  appeal  was  quite  unintelligible  to  Mildred.  Her 
first  thought  was  that  this  strange  young  woman  must  be  crazy. 
"  I — I  don't  xmderstand  you,"  she  said  at  last,  faintly.  "  You 
must  have  made  some  mistake." 

"  Don't  turn  away  from  me — hear  what  I  have  to  say.  I 
guess  you  ain't  such  a  great  lady  that  it  will  hurt  you  to  listen. 
They  think  he  shot  Mr.  Yates,  but  it  ain't  true — I  tell  you  it  ain't 
true  !"  And  Maud  began  to  cry  bitterly. 

"  Shot  Mr.  Yates  ?  Who  shot  Mr.  Yates  ?  And  who  are  you, 
and  why  do  you  come  here  and  talk  to  me  like  this?" 

"  Because  I  love  him  !  Oh,  I  ain't  ashamed  of  it — not  one 
bit.  He's  worth  more  than  all  the  fine  gentlemen  in  the  world. 
I  don't  care  if  he  ain't  a  baron — that's  not  his  fault.  But  you 
— what  do  you  care  whether  he's  alive  or  dead  ?  I  guess  I 

377 


might  as  well  go,"  said  Maud,  with  a  pathetic  assumption  of 
dignity,  "  since  you  won't  do  anything  to  help  me." 

«  No — wait,"  Mildred  said,  putting  out  a  detaining  hand.  "  It 
must  be  Mr.  Baretta  you  are  talking  about.  You  are  rather  im- 
pertinent," she  added,  coldly, "  but  I  suppose  you  hardly  realize 
it.  If  you  would  tell  me  the  whole  story — " 

"  Impertinent !"  cried  Maud.  "  Well,  I  don't  care  if  I  am. 
Oh  yes,"  she  went  on  angrily,  "  you  were  willing  enough  to 
take  him  away  from  me  once,  but  now  you  don't  care  what  be- 
comes of  him." 

"  I  can  do  nothing  to  help  either  you  or  him  while  you  go  on 
in  this  way.  If  he  is  in  trouble — well,  I  am  sorry  for  you  both. 
And — and  if  it  was  he  who  shot  Mr.  Yates,"  exclaimed  Mildred, 
wrath  flaming  from  her  eyes,  "  I  hope  he'll  be  made  to  suffer 
for  it !  What  did  you  come  to  me  for  ?  I'll  do  nothing,  no, 
not  the  first  thing,  for  a  swindler  and  a  murderer  !" 

"How  dare  you? — how  dare  you  talk  so  about  him?"  Maud's 
voice  was  loud  and  shrill  as  she  asked  the  question,  and  Daisy, 
coming  through  the  hall,  heard  it  and  stopped.  "  He  was  fool 
enough  to  care  for  you  —  that's  all  the  harm  he  did.  But  I'll 
save  him  in  spite  of  you !  No  matter  what  any  one  says,  I  love 
him  and  I'll  save  him — though  I  am  a  poor  girl  and  not  a  fine 
lady." 

And  Maud  turned  to  go.  She  would  humiliate  herself  no 
more,  she  thought,  trying  to  choke  back  the  sobs  that  convulsed 
her,  to  wipe  away  the  tears  that  blinded  her.  All  the  world 
was  alike ;  there  was  no  pity  for  those  who  fell  by  the  way. 
Why  had  she  come,  only  to  be  repulsed?  She  might  have 
known  how  it  would  be.  But  at  the  door  some  one  took  her 
by  the  arm  and  held  her  back. 

"  You  poor  girl ! — what  is  the  matter  ?"  Daisy  asked. 

"  Nothing — let  me  go,"  said  Maud,  trying  to  free  herself. 

"  Mildred ! — don't  you  understand  ?"  cried  Daisy.  "  I  couldn't 
help  hearing  what  she  said.  She  has  something  to  tell  us  about 
Mr.  Baretta — and  no  matter  what  he  has  done,  I'm  sorry  for  her. 
Don't  go  away ;  Miss  Lawrence  didn't  quite  understand." 

Maud  looked  np  and  saw  through  her  tears  two  piteous  blue 
eyes  gazing  into  hers.  Who  was  this  other  girl,  not  like  her, 

378 


but  kind  and  sympathizing?  "  Oh,  it's  nothing  to  you!"  she 
sobbed. 

But  Daisy  put  her  arm  about  Maud,  and  tenderly  led  her  back 
and  made  her  sit  down.  "  I  know  Mr.  Baretta,"  she  said,  "  and 
if  he  treated  you  badly — " 

"  He  didn't  treat  me  badly.  I  wasn't  good  enough  for  the 
likes  of  him  once ;  but  I'll  save  him,  no  matter  what  you  say. 
They're  trying  to  find  him — they  say  he  shot  Mr.  Yates.  But 
you  mustn't  believe  it.  How  could  he  do  that  ?  He  was  out  of 
his  head — he  came  to  see  me  like  that,  and  then  he  went  away 
— and-  oh !  he  may  be  dead  or  something,  for  no  one  knows 
where  he  is." 

"  There — there  ;  don't  cry  so,"  said  Daisy,  soothingly.  She 
saw  at  once  what  Mildred  had  not  seen,  perhaps  because  her 
sympathies  were  so  much  more  easily  aroused.  This  was  some 
girl  in  his  own  class  whom  Baretta  had  loved,  and  whose  fidelity 
to  him  had  survived  every  shock.  It  was  pitiful  to  think  how 
she  had  been  deceived.  But  whatever  he  had  done  it  was  not 
her  fault,  and  surely  a  way  might  be  found  to  help  her.  She 
was  a  little  vexed  with  Mildred  for  not  understanding  the  case 
better.  "  The  poor  girl  isn't  to  blarne,"  Daisy  said,  looking  up. 
She  had  been  bending  over  Maud,  gently  stroking  her  hand 
with  an  irresistible  impulse  of  consolation. 

"You  are  so  heedless,  Daisy,"  Mildred  said,  shrugging  her 
shoulders.  "  I'm  sorry  for  her — but  what  can  we  do  ?  I  don't 
suppose  you  want  to  interfere — if  he  is  really  guilty." 

Daisy,  however,  was  a  very  inconsistent  person.  She  had  all 
the  feminine  dislike  of  logic  ;  and  although  she  had  expressed 
her  willingness  to  shoot  Baretta  herself,  and  was  very  indignant 
when  she  thought  how  much  Philip  was  suffering  through  him, 
she  could  not  turn  this  forlorn  girl  away  without  trying  to  help 
her.  "  I  want  to  interfere — for  her  sake,"  Daisy  said,  defiantly. 
"  Of  course,  if  you  don't  wish  her  to  stay,  she  can  come  home 
with  me." 

"  Nonsense  !"  said  Mildred,  irritably.  She  was  really  begin- 
ning to  feel  a  little  sorry  for  her  strange  visitor,  although  she 
was  at  a  loss  how  to  show  it.  She  could  go  and  talk  to  poor 
people  easily  enough,  and  take  them  food,  or  give  them  money. 

379 


But  a  common  girl  who  had  been  impertinent  to  her — and  who 
knew  that  she  wasn't  a  bad  girl  ? — was  much  more  difficult  to 
deal  with.  "  I  think  we  had  better  go  up-stairs,"  Mildred  ob- 
served presently,  "  and  if  this — this  young  woman  can  tell  us  a 
connected  story — I'm  sure  I  tried  hard  enough  to  get  her  to  do 
that — but  she  wasn't  exactly  respectful — " 

"  Come,"  said  Daisy,  taking  Maud's  hand,  "  Miss  Lawrence 
didn't  quite  understand,  at  first;  but  she  will  help  you — we  both 
will." 

So  Maud  came  away  feeling  somewhat  comforted,  after  all.  It 
seemed  much  easier  to  talk  to  this  other  young  lady,  who  was 
not  so  cold  and  dignified  as  Miss  Lawrence,  but  who  listened 
with  encouraging  nods,  as  if  she  had  known  about  Arragon 
Street  and  the  Dolan  family  all  her  life.  She  didn't  act  a  bit 
like  one  of  the  swells,  although  the  card  which  Maud  took  with 
a  promise  to  go  and  see  her  soon  had  Commonwealth  Avenue 
on  it ;  Maud  was  not  skilled  enough  in  social  exigencies  to  see 
that  it  was  an  even  number,  and  that  one  who  lived  on  that  side 
of  the  street  might  not  be  so  very  much  of  a  swell,  in  spite  of  a 
fine  house.  Miss  Tredwell — Frank  had  never  spoken  of  her,  al- 
though she  said  that  she  knew  him.  But  Maud  could  see  easily 
enough  that  she  didn't  like  him — that  she  didn't  believe  in  him. 
How  unjust  of  her  !  and  yet  Maud  liked  her,  because  she  was  so 
kind.  She  had  cried  a  little  over  Maud's  story,  and  had  kissed 
her  when  she  said  good-bye.  Perhaps  all  the  real  ladies  were 
not  stuck  up,  as  she  had  thought.  No  one  would  doubt  that 
Miss  Tredwell  was  a  real  lady.  Miss  Lawrence  had  tried  to  be 
kind,  too,  and  she  was  no  longer  angry  with  her.  She  wasn't  so 
pretty  as  Baretta  tried  to  make  out ;  Maud's  sense  of  rivalry  still 
lingered  and  disposed  her  to  be  unjust ;  but  she,  too,  had  been 
sorry,  and  had  promised  to  do  anything  she  could — even  for 
Frank,  if  it  could  be  proved  that  he  was  innocent.  Innocent ! 
Maud  repeated  to  herself.  Of  course  he  was — why  should  they 
suspect  him  ?  And  Miss  Tredwell  had  told  her  that  Mr.  Yates 
would  surely  get  better,  though  perhaps  this  was  only  to  console 
her.  And  yet  down  deep  in  her  heart  there  was  anything  but  a 
feeling  of  confidence.  She  remembered  only  too  well  what 
Frank  had  said  about  getting  even  with  his  enemies.  And  she 

380 


knew  what  a  dreadful  temper  he  had.  But  to  kill  a  man !  could 
she  love  him  if  he  had  done  that  ?  Oh  no,  no !  she  said  to  her- 
self with  a  shudder ;  or  if  she  still  loved  him,  she  could  not  for- 
give him.  He  would  never  do  such  a  thing — never  !  unless  he 
were  quite  out  of  his  head.  And  he  had  been  that  when  he 
rushed  away  in  the  darkness  on  the  evening  when  Mr.  Yates  was 
shot.  They  wouldn't  punish  him  if  he  was  out  of  his  head. 
That,  however,  did  not  make  the  situation  any  less  miserable. 
And  where  was  he  now  ? — dead  himself,  perhaps,  and  she  would 
never  see  him  again.  Her  heart  ached  with  its  burden  of  grief 
as  she  wearily  climbed  the  stairs  to  her  dismal  little  room. 

It  was  not  until  she  had  lit  the  gas  that  she  turned  and  saw 
Baretta  sitting  there.  She  started  back  with  a  shriek,  like  one 
whose  imagination  conjured  up  some  awful  spectre.  "  Frank  ! 
oh,  Frank  !"  she  cried,  when  at  last  she  was  capable  of  speech, 
"  where  have  you  been  ?  and  what  have  you  done  1" 

381 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 
MAUD  HEARS  THE  TRUTH 

SHE  read  his  answer  in  his  face  before  he  spoke.  His  whole 
look  was  that  of  the  hunted  criminal ;  so  white  and  haggard 
was  he,  so  full  of  anguish  and  despair.  His  eyes  were  dull,  his 
lips  twitched  nervously ;  and  his  hand  trembled  as  he  pushed 
back  his  hair  from  his  forehead  with  a  gesture  of  utter  ex- 
haustion. "  I've  been  in  hell,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  Oh,  Frank,  Frank !"  Maud  cried,  helplessly  wringing  her 
hands,  "  why  did  you  come  here  ?  You  must  get  away  at  once. 
They'll  find  you,  and  then — oh,  tell  me  it  isn't  true  !  say  it  isn't 
true,  and  I'll  believe  you  and  go  anywhere  with  you  !" 

"  True  ?  what  isn't  true  ?  See  here,  Maud,  I — I've  been  sick. 
I  didn't  know  what  I  was  about,  and  I  wandered  off.  Who's  go- 
ing to  find  me  ?  I  haven't  done  anything  to  be  afraid  of.  You 
— you  don't  seem  very  glad  to  see  me,  Maud." 

"  But  I  have  been  so  worried  about  you.  Why  did  you  go 
away,  and  never  let  me  know?  And,  oh,  Frank  !  if  you  haven't 
done  anything  wrong,  why — why  should  you  look  like  that  ?" 

"  Like  that  ?"  He  rose  then,  and  went  to  the  glass  and  gazed 
anxiously  at  the  image  of  himself  that  he  saw  there.  "  Well," 
he  said,  rather  fretfully,  "  any  one  could  see  I'd  been  sick.  A 
week — a  whole  week — wandering  about  the  devil  knows  where. 
And  not  myself  all  the  time,"  he  added,  with  a  cunning  smile. 
"  How  do  I  know  where  I've  been  or  what  I've  been  doing  ?" 

A  feeling  of  loathing — oppressive,  deadly — overcame  Maud 
as  she  saw  that  smile.  She  could  not  understand  it  at  all.  She 
loved  him — oh,  what  had  she  not  been  willing  to  do  for  him  ? — 
but  now  she  shrank  from  him  and  loathed  him. 

382 


"  Well,  Maud,"  Baretta  said,  advancing  towards  her,  "  aren't 
you  going  to  come  with  me  now  ?  I  said  I'd  come  back,  you 
know — and  I've  kept  my  word,  haven't  I  ?  You  don't  seem  to 
understand  yet,  but  I  will  explain  everything  to  you — oh  yes, 
there  will  be  plenty  of  time  for  that.  Maud  !  what's  the  mat- 
ter ?"  he  cried,  as  she  eluded  his  out-stretched  hand. 

"  Don't  touch  me  !"  she  gasped.  "  Oh,  Frank,  I  don't  know 
what  it  means,  but  when  you  come  near  me —  Why  don't  you 
tell  me  the  truth  ?  Why  do  you  keep  me  in  misery  ?"" 

"  The  truth  ?  Look  here,  Maud,  are  you  out  of  your  head, 
too  ?  What's  the  matter  with  you,  that  you  shrink  away  from 
me  ?  Damnation  !"  cried  Baretta,  in  a  sudden  burst  of  anger, 
"  have  you  gone  back  on  me — listening  to  their  vile  stories,  in- 
stead of  believing  what  I  tell  you  ?  Very  well,  then,  I'll  go. 
I'll  leave  you  for  good,  and  you'll  never  see  me  again.  I 
Avouldn't  marry  you  now  if  you  got  down  on  your  knees  to 
me  —  no,  by  Heaven !  I  wouldn't.  I  suppose,"  he  added, 
with  a  sneer,  "  some  new  fellow  has  turned  up  since  I've  been 
gone." 

"  How  dare  you  talk  of  such  a  thing,  Frank  ?"  she  went  on, 
trying  to  be  calm.  "  I  see  it  all,  now.  I  wouldn't  believe  it  at 
first,  but  something  tells  me  it  was  you." 

Baretta  flung  himself  down  in  the  chair  with  a  gesture  of  im- 
patience. "  I'll  stay  just  long  enough  to  find  out  what  in 
thunder  you  mean." 

"  You  must  go,  Frank  ;  they  may  track  you  here  any  minute. 
Oh,  why  didn't  I  think  of  that  sooner  ?"  Maud  cried,  greatly 
agitated.  "  The  man  came  here  once — the  policeman — and  per- 
haps he  knows  you  are  here  now.  Oh,  go,  go,  Frank  !  Get 
away  somewhere !  Don't  let  them  take  you  to  prison !  I — I 
will  try  to  help  you  afterwards.  Write  to  me  when  you  are  safe 
— but  go  now  !" 

"  I'll  be  damned  if  I  stir  a  step !  Go  ?  I  guess  I've  had 
enough  of  going — don't  you  see  how  tired  I  am  ?  Why  should 
policemen  come  here  to  find  me  ?  There's  no  reason  to  be 
afraid  of  them,"  Baretta  said,  defiantly.  Nevertheless,  there 
was  a  look  of  fear  in  his  eyes.  "You  wouldn't  betray  me, 
would  you  ?"  he  asked. 

383 


"  Oh,  I'll  help  you — but  go  !  They  have  found  out,  somehow, 
and  they  will  take  you  to  prison." 

"  No  doubt  you  want  to  get  rid  of  me,  but  I  sha'n't  go  until 
I'm  good  and  ready.  I  don't  think  it's  very  kind  of  you,  Maud, 
to  treat  me  like  this." 

"  Kind !"  cried  Maud,  piteously.  "  Frank,  Frank,  you  are 
breaking  my  heart !  Oh,  if  you'll  tell  me  that  it  isn't  true  what 
they  say,  I'll  believe  you.  I'll  do  anything  for  you — I'll  go  any- 
where with  you." 

"  How  can  I  tell  what  you're  driving  at  ?  Why  don't  you 
speak  out  ?" 

Maud  wandered  irresolutely  about  the  room  before  she  re- 
plied. Then  she  faced  him  once  more.  "Did  you  shoot  Mr. 
Yates  ?"  she  asked. 

The  question  took  him  by  surprise,  and  for  a  minute  he  lay 
back  in  the  chair  staring  at  her.  "  Yates  ?  What  the  devil  do 
you  know  about  Yates  ?"  he  said  at  last,  petulantly. 

"  Was  it  you  who  shot  him  ?" 

"  Well,  what  if  I  did  ?"  He  rose  with  fury  in  his  face,  and, 
seizing  her  by  the  shoulder,  shook  her  violently.  "  By  Heaven  ! 
I'll  shoot  you,  too,  if  you  betray  me." 

"  Let  me  alone  !  how  dare  you  ?"  cried  Maud,  angrily.  Oh, 
how  she  had  been  deceived  in  him  all  along !  That  he  should 
threaten  even  her,  who  had  loved  him  and  had  been  faithful  to 
him  in  spite  of  everything !  She  had  tried  so  hard  not  to 
think  ill  of  him — to  believe  that  if  he  had  really  committed  any 
crime  it  was  because  he  was  out  of  his  head.  It  was  a  bitter 
thing  to  have  all  her  illusions  thus  swept  away  ;  and  the  bitter- 
ness of  it  increased  her  wrath.  "Oh,  you  dirty  coward!"  she 
burst  forth  ;  "  how  dare  you  touch  me  ?" 

"  Coward !"  It  was  the  word  which  Mildred  had  used,  but 
somehow  on  Maud's  lips  it  stung  him  even  more  than  it  had 
then.  "Coward!  Til  teach  you  a  lesson — how  to  treat  me 
decently  next  time  !"  He  seized  her  once  again,  so  roughly  that 
she  could  not  help  crying  out;  then  hurled  her  staggering 
against  the  wall.  "  I'll  show  you  what  it  is  to  betray  me  !"  he 
cried,  furiously. 

But  Maud  had  fallen  to  the  floor,  and  she  still  laid  there  help- 

384 


lessly,  staring  up  at  him  with  a  white  face,  in  which  there  was 
pain  but  no  terror.  "  Well,  why  don't  you  shoot  me  too,  as  you 
said  you  would  ?"  she  asked,  suppressing  the  moan  that  rose  to 
her  lips.  "  I  don't  care — now,"  she  added,  with  a  piteous  sob. 

Baretta's  wrath  had  had  time  to  cool.  He  realized  what  he 
had  done — what  a  brute  he  had  been.  "  I — I  didn't  mean  to 
hurt  you,  Maud,"  he  muttered,  in  a  shamefaced  way.  "  Con- 
found it,  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  me — everything 
upsets  me.  But  what  business  had  yon  to  call  me  a  coward? 
I  should  think  you  were  the  coward,  to  go  back  on  me  when  I'm 
in  trouble.  Maud,  why  don't  you  get  up  instead  of  lying  there 
and  looking  at  me  so  ?" 

"I — I  can't  get  up — I'm  hurt  so — my  foot — "  And  then 
poor  Maud  fainted  away. 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?"  Mrs.  Jackson  asked,  as  she  responded 
to  Baretta's  summons.  "  Here,  you  run  for  the  doctor,"  she 
said  to  Mr.  Jackson,  who  had  followed  her  into  the  hall.  "  How 
did  it  happen  ?"  she  repeated. 

"  Oh — oh,  she  fell — she  must  have  stumbled  against  some- 
thing—" 

"  I  guess  'twas  your  fist,  then,"  Mrs.  Jackson  said.  "  Why 
don't  you  stay  away  and  leave  her  alone  ?  She  says  you're  goin' 
to  marry  her,  but  if  she's  wise  she'll  send  you  about  your  busi- 
ness. I  don't  see  but  what  she  gets  into  trouble  every  time  you 
come.  Oh,  I  hain't  no  patience  with  these  furriners !"  she  mut- 
tered as  she  hurried  up-stairs. 

Baretta's  dark  face  flushed  with  anger  at  Mrs.  Jackson's 
words,  but  he  made  no  reply.  The  result  of  his  latest  outburst 
had  indeed  frightened  him.  That  he  should  have  struck  Maud 
and  hurt  her  so  bSdly  ! — Maud,  who  had  never  had  anything  but 
love  and  kindness  for  him.  It  was  true  that  she  had  provoked 
him ;  but  then  he  ought  not  to  have  minded.  Some  one  had 
been  prejudicing  her  against  him.  She  had  spoken  about  a 
policeman  coming.  A  policeman !  then  they  must  suspect  him 
already.  He  had  laughed  to  think  that  there  was  no  clew,  but 
now  this  certainty  had  vanished.  How  had  they  found  out? 
who  could  have  told  them  ?  Maud  knew,  and  wanted  him  to  go 
away  at  once.  Oh  yes,  no  doubt  she  would  be  glad  to  be  rid  of 

2 »  385 


him  now  !  She  cared  for  him  no  longer ;  she  had  as  good  as 
told  him  so.  But  he  would  stand  his  ground.  Let  them  arrest 
him  if  they  dared.  No  one  had  seen  him  fire  the  shot,  and  he 
was  not  afraid  of  mere  suspicions.  Besides,  he  was  not  sure 
that  he  wished  to  escape.  Even  Maud  had  deserted  him.  He 
had  no  friend  but  that  tiny  weapon  his  father  had  left  him, 
which  might  still  do  him  a  service. 

He  had  to  help  Mrs.  Jackson  lift  Maud  to  the  bed,  although 
the  girl,  who  had  quickly  recovered  consciousness,  shuddered 
and  closed  her  eyes  as  he  touched  her.  He  saw  this  and  ground 
his  teeth  in  useless  fury.  That  Maud  should  shrink  from  him 
in  this  way,  as  if  there  were  infection  in  his  presence !  Per- 
haps it  was  the  bitterest  humiliation  of  all  that  he  had  suffered. 
He  walked  to  the  window  and  stood  there  looking  out  while 
Mrs.  Jackson  bent  over  Maud  and  asked  her  how  she  felt  now. 

"  My  boot — take  it  off !  oh,  be  careful !" 

"You'll  have  to  cut  the  leather,"  said  Baretta,  coming  for- 
ward and  offering  his  pocket-knife. 

"  All  right,  young  man,"  Mrs.  Jackson  said,  sharply.  "  And 
you  jest  go  down-stairs  and  wait  till  you're  wanted — or  leave  if 
you  like.  I'm  goin'  to  undress  her  and  git  her  so  as  she'll  be 
comfortable." 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  said  Maud.  "  There — it's  easier  now  the 
boot  is  off.  I — I  want  to  speak  to  him — all  alone — before  he 
goes,"  she  added,  looking  up  with  eyes  full  of  entreaty. 

"  Oh,  that  means  you  don't  want  me."  And  Mrs.  Jackson 
gave  vent  to  a  short  hard  laugh. 

"  Don't  be  mad  about  it,  Mrs.  Jackson.  It's — it's  only  a  word 
— and  I  may  not  ever  see  him  again." 

"  Why  not  ?  what  are  you  talking  about  ?"  TBaretta  cried,  im- 
patiently. He  waited  nntil  Mrs.  Jackson  had  left  the  room,  clos- 
ing the  door  behind  her,  and  then  said,  "You  know  I  didn't  mean 
to  hurt  you,  Maud.  I  was  angry,  and  didn't  realize  what  I  was 
doing.  I — I  have  been  ill — my  head  troubles  me — I  don't  un- 
derstand why,  but  it  aches — oh,  how  it  aches  !" 

"I  am  sorry  for  you,  Frank,"  said  Maud,  faintly;  "and  I 
cannot  talk  muck  now.  All  I  want  to  ask  you  is,  if — if  you  shot 
him?  Oh,  Frank,  I  don't  want  to  believe  it — I  don't,  indeed  !" 

386 


Baretta  scowled  at  her  resentfully  before  he  answered.  "He 
was  my  enemy — I  had  my  revenge  on  him,"  he  said,  at  last. 
"  If  you  intend  to  go  back  on  me — " 

"  Oh,  Frank  !"  Maud  said  again  ;  and  there  were  tears  rolling 
slowly  down  her  cheeks.  "  To  think  that  you  should  do — that !" 

"  Curse  him !"  Baretta  cried,  furiously.  "  I'd  do  it  again — 
yes,  I  would,  no  matter  what  the  consequences  were.  It  was  ho 
that  was  against  me  all  along — that  went  to  her  with  his  foul 
lies  and  ruined  me.  It  was  just  and  right  that  I  should  punish 
him  for  it.  And  you — who  pretended  to  love  me — " 

"  I  guess  you  are  the  one  that  did  the  pretending,  Frank,"  said 
Maud,  smiling  bitterly.  "But  what's  the  use  of  talking  about 
it  now  ?  I'll  help  you  any  way  I  can,  though  I  don't  see  how — 
what  can  a  poor  girl  like  me  do  ? — and  she — Miss  Lawrence — 
perhaps  she'll  help  you,  too.  She — or  Miss  Tredwell." 

Baretta  scowled  more  savagely  than  ever  when  he  heard  this 
name.  "  Miss  Tredwell  ?  what  do  you  know  about  her  ?" 

"  I  went  to  see  her — her  and  Miss  Lawrence.  Oh,  I  could  not 
bear  to  sit  here  and  wait,  and  not  try  to  do  anything  for  you." 

"  What !  you  went  to  them  ?  Curse  you,  you've  done  me 
more  harm  than  all  the  rest.  Why  didn't  you  send  for  the  po- 
lice at  once  ?  The  police !  Oh,  I  dare  say  they'll  be  here  soon. 
I  suppose  you  want  me  to  wait  for  them." 

"  No,  no  !"  Maud  said,  trying  to  rise,  but  sinking  back  with  a 
sharp  cry  of  pain.  "  Oh,  I  had  forgotten — no,  you  must  go  at 
once,  before  they  find  you.  Go,  go !  and  send  me  word  some- 
how where  you  are,  and  we  will — I  will  help  you.  Oh,  Frank, 
it  breaks  my  heart  to  say  good-bye — to  send  you  away  like  this 
— but  what  else  can  I  do  ?  I  would  not  have  believed  it — no, 
not  for  a  moment — if  you  hadn't  told  me.  Go — I  can't  talk  to 
you  any  more !"  cried  poor  Maud,  with  a  sob. 

He  stood  looking  down  on  her  for  a  moment.  There  was  an 
expression  of  devilish  malignity  on  his  face  that  made  her  cower 
and  tremble  before  him.  "  Oh,  I'll  pay  you  up,  too  !"  he  hissed 
at  last.  "  Damn  you  !  if  I  go  to  hell  I'll  take  you  with  me  !" 

Maud  saw  the  gleam  of  the  revolver  as  he  aimed  it  at  her.  But 
she  was  too  much  overcome  by  terror  even  to  scream.  A  hun- 
dred wild  imaginings  possessed  her  in  that  single  moment ;  her 

387 


supreme  thought  was  that  death,  however  fearful,  would  at  least 
bring  all  her  miseries  to  an  end.  Then  suddenly  a  piercing 
shriek  was  heard  and  voices  —  Mrs.  Jackson's  voice,  and  her 
husband's,  and  that  of  a  strange  man.  The  tumult  aroused  her 
suspended  faculties,  and  once  more  she  tried  to  rise.  "  Oh,  save 
him  !  save  him  !"  she  cried. 

But  Baretta,  turning  quickly,  and  flourishing  his  weapon, 
made  a  bolt  for  the  door.  Mrs.  Jackson  screamed  again,  and 
Mr.  Jackson  showed  remarkable  agility  in  stepping  to  one  side. 
The  stranger  alone  tried  to  interfere,  and  Baretta,  by  a  sudden 
flank  movement,  managed  to  elude  his  grasp,  and  so  gained  the 
stairway  in  safety.  Another  curse,  a  wild  cry  of  rage,  burst 
from  his  lips  as  he  hurried  down.  Then  the  banging  of  the 
door  was  heard  below. 

"  Chase  him  !  Oh,  you  stupid  brute,  why  don't  you  catch 
him  ?"  Mrs.  Jackson  cried,  addressing  her  husband. 

"  I  don't  see  any  good  of  that  now,"  grumbled  he. 

"  No,"  interrupted  the  other  man,  "  the  best  thing  you  can 
do  is  to  inform  the  police.  He  is  a  dangerous  person  to  have 
at  large,  I  should  say.  And  now,"  he  added,  turning  to  Maud, 
"  we  will  look  at  this  young  lady's  foot,  if  you  please.  I  am  the 
doctor,"  he  said,  in  a  kindly  tone.  "  Is  the  pain  very  great  ?" 

But  after  the  doctor  had  gone,  and  Mrs.  Jackson  had  dis- 
cussed the  exciting  episode  from  every  possible  point  of  view, 
and  had  gone  down-stairs  to  wait  for  her  husband,  in  order  to 
discuss  it  again,  Maud,  lying  alone  in  the  dim  light  of  a  single 
candle,  was  saying  to  herself  that  now,  indeed,  everything  that 
made  life  worth  living  was  over  for  her,  and  that  death  would 
be  a  welcome  relief.  But  not  by  his  hand !  though  she  had 
thought  of  it  as  that,  even  while  his  arm  was  raised  to  kill  her, 
she  was  only  too  thankful  that  he  had  been  prevented  from  com- 
mitting that  crime.  "  Oh,  Frank,  Frank  !"  she  moaned,  feeling 
how  powerless  words  were  to  relieve  the  pent-up  tide  of  emotion, 
and  yet  unable  to  withstand  it  in  utter  silence.  "  Oh,  Frank, 
Frank !  that  you  could  have  the  heart  to  do  it."  The  culmina- 
tion of  all  her  anxieties  was  far  more  tragic  than  her  wildest 
fancies 'could  have  predicted.  A  murderer! — not  out  of  his 
head,  but  sane  enough,  and  a  murderer !  What  could  be  worse 

388 


than  that?     How  could  there  be  any  more  poignant  misery  for 
her  to  endure  ? 

Poor  Maud !  It  was  not  strange  that  she  should  think  the 
worst  had  befallen,  that  she  should  imagine  the  future  to  hold 
for  her  no  share  of  happiness  whatever.  Her  love  for  Baretta 
had  been  the  controlling  motive  of  her  life  for  so  long,  that  in 
the  first  shock  of  finding  it  suddenly  taken  away  all  the  world 
seemed  to  fall  about  her  in  ruins.  Oh,  there  was  nothing  more 
for  her  to  live  for — no,  nothing.  She  had  given  him  up  once, 
to  be  sure ;  but  then  she  had  this  love  to  console  her,  and  the 
memory  of  what  had  been  sweet  as  well  as  bitter  in  the  past. 
But  now  there  was  no  hope  of  consolation  at  all.  She  could  not 
now  think  of  him  as  happy  in  some  sphere  higher  than  her  own. 
He  had  thrown  everything  away  in  his  passion — love  and  per- 
haps life  itself.  They  were  hunting  him  down  because  he  was 
a  murderer :  he  had  tried  to  kill  her,  who  had  been  faithful  to 
him  while  he  himself  was  faithless,  who  had  wanted  to  save  him 
in  spite  of  all.  To  think  she  might  have  died  by  his  hand! 
She  was  not  afraid  of  death — what  more  had  life  to  offer  her? — 
but  to  die  in  that  way  would  have  been  an  intolerable  agony. 
She  was  thankful  that  he  had  not  that  sin  upon  his  soul.  But 
now — what  did  it  matter  to  her  whether  she  lived  or  died  ?  It 
was  natural  enough  that  she  should  ask  herself  this  question. 
She  could  not  realize  how  impossible  her  dream  of  happiness 
with  him  would  have  been  under  any  circumstances ;  she  could 
not  yet  be  grateful  for  the  very  rudeness  of  the  awakening. 
But  she  had  passed  through  the  blackest  crisis  of  her  whole  ca- 
reer, and  who  should  say  that  happiness  would  never  come  to 
her  hereafter?  Existence  might  have  an  altered  meaning,  but 
at  twenty  hope  seldom  flees  forever.  Poor  Maud  !  She  cried 
herself  to  sleep  that  night,  and  she  awoke  in  the  morning  with 
a  heavy  heart.  And  there  was  still  another  moment  of  supreme 
anguish  to  come — the  moment  when  she  learned  Barctta's  fate. 
Nevertheless,  although  we  mortals  are  fond  of  saying  that  this 
or  the  other  circumstance  is  unendurable,  we  somehow  manage 
to  endure  it ;  and  if  the  scar  remains,  if  the  old  wound  throbs 
again  with  pain,  we  live  and  laugh — and  sometimes  even  love 
once  more. 

389 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 
HEMMED  IN 

BARETTA  ran  down  the  street,  with  the  revolver  still  in  his 
hand,  casting  now  and  then  a  backward  glance  in  the  fear  of  pos- 
sible pursuers.  It  was  not  until  he  was  some  distance  from  the 
house,  and  had  turned  into  one  of  the  main  thoroughfares,  that 
he  thrust  the  weapon  into  his  pocket,  and  slackened  his  pace  to 
a  rapid  walk.  His  heart  was  beating  violently,  and  the  perspi- 
ation  was  streaming  down  his  face.  Where  should  he  go  now  ? 
What  should  he  do  ?  One  thing  was  certain — he  Would  not  wait 
for  his  enemies  to  hunt  him  down.  And  yet  how  could  he  escape 
them  ?  He  had  no  money  ;  he  no  longer  had  any  friends.  Even 
Maud  was  false  to  him.  Maud  !  he  had  tried  to  kill  Maud,  but 
they  had  prevented  him.  He  was  rather  glad  of  that,  because, 
after  all,  she  had  loved  him  once.  The  worst  of  it  was  that  a 
woman  had  screamed,  so  that  all  the  world  might  hear.  Oh 
yes,  they  would  have  reason  enough  to  accuse  him  now,  to 
call  him  a  murderer,  as  Maud  herself  had  done  !  A  murderer  ? 
— how  was  it  that  Baron  Smolzow  had  become  a  murderer  ? 
He  could  not  understand  it  at  all.  And  to  try  to  kill  Maud, 
who  was  in  pain  and  trouble,  who  had  told  him  that  he  was 
breaking  her  heart !  Surely  he  was  not  quite  himself  to  think 
of  such  a  thing.  And  now  he  had  nowhere  to  go,  no  place  of 
refuge,  but  must  die  like  a  rat  in  a  trap.  Death!  the  word  had 
a  horrible  sound  ;  why  should  he  be  thinking  about  death  ? 
Maud  was  not  dead ;  he  had  done  her  no  harm.  Oh  yes,  he 
was  glad  of  that ;  he  could  not  have  borne  the  thought  that  he 
had  killed  Maud.  It  was  different  with  Yates,  who  was  his  en- 
emy and  who  had  deserved  his  fate.  Justice  demanded  that  he 

390 


should  die,  and  although  he  was  still  alive,  justice  would  surely 
be  satisfied.  But  not  Maud ! — no,  although  she  had  treated 
him  so  badly. 

The  night  was  chilly,  and  a  fine  mist  was  driving  in  his  face, 
but  he  did  not  mind  that.  Curse  these  people  !  how  they  jostled 
against  him  as  they  hurried  along  the  pavement.  What  were 
so  many  of  them  doing  in  the  streets  ?  What  evening  was  it  ? 
He  had  lost  all  count  of  time,  that  vague,  wild  dream  of  his  had 
lasted  so  long.  Oh,  he  knew  now  ;  it  must  be  Saturday  evening 
— all  the  shops  were  still  open.  He  was  dreaming  no  longer. 
He  had  work  to  do  that  would  keep  him  awake.  And  yet  had 
he  slept  at  all  since  he  had  seen  that  black  figure  outlined 
against  the  square  of  yellow  light,  and  ,had  heard  the  shot  ring- 
ing out  in  the  still  night  air  ?  Then  everything  had  become 
vague  and  indistinct.  He  was  wandering  about  in  the  darkness, 
under  the  black  walls  of  the  sleeping  housos.  Then  there  were 
great  branches  tossing  in  the  wind  above  his  head,  and  he  heard 
a  voice  telling  him  of  the  blind  ways  that  were  provided  for  such 
as  he. 

This  pale,  cold  glow — this  gray,  uncertain  light — was  it  the 
dawn  ?  They  must  not  find  him  here.  No,  he  would  go  away, 
and  without  Maud,  whom  he  had  loved  at  the  last.  The  bare, 
brown  fields  went  flying  by  as  he  gazed  from  the  window  of  the 
car.  But  he  must  get  away  from  these  people  who  were  shak- 
ing their  heads  at  him  and  saying  that  he  was  not  Baron  Smol- 
zow.  It  was  all  a  lie — why  should  they  believe  a  fellow  like 
Yates  ?  But  Yates  would  tell  no  more  lies.  How  that  yellow 
light  blinded  him !  The  black  figure  was  there  no  longer,  and 
how  it  blinded  him !  Now  it  was  turning  to  red — all  the  air  was 
red  about  him  ;  and  he  was  walking  on  and  on,  somewhere 
through  a  desolate  land  without  a  human  habitation.  Well,  he 
was  rid  of  those  people  who  shook  their  heads  at  him ;  he  heard 
no  longer  the  roar  of  the  train.  It  was  quiet — oh,  as  still  as 
death — out  there  in  the  fields  ;  quiet  only  for  those  whispers  all 
around  him  from  invisible  lips.  He  is  not  Baron  Smolzow — 
curse  them  !  how  do  they  know  ? 

It  is  warm  in  here — in  this  drowsy  corner  of  the  little  coun- 
try inn.  Yes,  how  very  drowsy  it  is.  Sleep — that  is  what  he 

391 


needs.  Now  he  is  climbing  some  quaint  old  stairs.  He  keeps 
on  climbing  even  in  the  darkness  that  follows.  .  .  .  Ah,  how 
much  better  he  feels !  how  clear  his  brain  is  at  last !  There  are 
no  more  voices  whispering  to  him  :  no  one  says  that  he  is  not  Bar- 
on Smolzow.  The  days  go  by  ;  he  likes  to  linger  here,  where  no 
one  will  think  of  finding  him.  But  one  night  the  fit  is  on  him 
again  and  he  wanders  out,  and  when  he  comes  to  himself  he  is 
far  away,  faint  and  weary,  in  a  strange  place.  What  has  hap- 
pened to  him?  Perhaps  Maud  would  know — Maud  whom  he 
loves  and  whom  he  had  almost  forgotten.  Maud  !  he  will  go 
to  her.  .  .  .  And  now  he  is  in  the  street,  and  she  is  lying  there 
— in  pain  because  he  hurt  her — he  who  loved  her.  What  had 
he  done  that  for  ?  Poor  Maud  !  whom  he  would  never  see 
again. 

Oh  yes — it  must  be  Saturday  night,  Baretta  said  to  himself, 
as  he  walked  down  the  brilliantly  lighted  street.  He  heard  a 
clock  striking  ten,  but  the  shops  were  still  open,  and  men  and 
women  were  going  in  and  out,  rich  for  the  time  in  a  week's 
wages.  And  it  was  for  them  he  had  wanted  to  sacrifice 
all — for  the  complaining  millions  who  surged  by  him  in  a 
pitiless  procession,  with  no  thought  of  the  misery  he  had  under- 
gone. They  had  a  week's  wages,  while  he  walked  on  with 
empty  pockets,  faint  and  despairing  for  lack  of  food.  He  had 
spent  his  very  last  cent  that  morning  for  a  single  roll,  and  here 
it  was  night,  and  he  was  hungry  and  homeless.  There  was  no 
one  in  all  the  world  to  whom  he  could  go  :  his  last  friend  was 
Maud,  and  he  had  lost  her.  It  would  have  been  sweet  to  die — 
with  her  ;  but  now  he  must  die  alone.  How,  indeed,  could  he 
live  ?  He  was  young,  it  is  true,  and  able  to  work ;  but  that  was 
what  they  would  not  let  him  do — these  people  who  were  con- 
spiring against  him.  Maud  had  said  they  were  trying  to  find 
him,  because  they  knew  that  he  had  shot  Yates.  How  could 
they  know,  when  no  one  had  seen  him  do  it?  Well,  it  was 
no  matter ;  he  would  baffle  them  all  yet.  They  had  hemmed 
him  in,  but  he  knew  of  a  way  out.  The  police !  let  the  police 
try  to  take  him  if  they  dared ! 

Now  a  strange  feeling  of  giddiness  began  to  overcome  him, 
and  he  staggered  slightly,  running  against  a  man  with  a  basket 

392 


on  his  arm,  who  was  coming  in  the  opposite  direction.  "  Look 
out !  you  damn  drunken  fool !"  cried  the  man  sharply. 

"  Drunk  !"  retorted  Baretta,  striking  out  savagely  with  his 
right  arm,  "  I'm  no  more  drunk  than  you  are." 

But  the  blow  missed  its  mark,  and  the  very  exertion — so  weak 
was  he — sent  him  reeling  against  the  wall.  The  man  stared  at 
him  contemptuously  a  moment  and  then  passed  on ;  while  Ba- 
retta, after  steadying  himself  with  difficulty,  groped  his  way 
to  the  next  doorway,  where  he  sank  down  upon  the  step,  and 
huddling  wretchedly  in  the  darkest  corner  hid  his  face  in  his 
hands.  He  could  feel  the  tears  trickling  between  his  closed 
ringers  as  he  sat  there.  Oh,  it  might  make  any  one  cry  to  be  so 
wretched !  And  he  had  done  nothing  to  deserve  his  wretched- 
ness— nothing  except  wreaking  vengeance  upon  his  enemy,  as 
he  had  a  right  to  do. 

The  noise  of  laughter  aroused  him  presently.  Two  girls  had 
stopped  directly  in  front  of  the  doorway,  and  in  a  minute  two 
men  joined  them.  The  girls  might  have  seemed  attractive  at  a  sin- 
gle glance  ;  they  had  bright  eyes  and  red  cheeks ;  the  hair  of  one 
was  bright  auburn  in  hue,  while  the  frizzled  locks  of  the  other 
flamed  out  in  a  suspiciously  radiant  yellow.  The  men  were 
young — of  the  type  that  Baretta  had  seen  so  often  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Arragon  Street.  They  wore  ill-fitting  slop  clothes, 
highly-coloured  neckties,  and  round-top  hats  several  seasons  out 
of  date.  Their  ungloved  hands  were  red,  their  faces  covered 
with  irregular  blotches. 

"  Hullo,  Jenny  !"  cried  one.     "  What  are  you  doing  here  ?" 

"  Well,  what  business  is  that  of  yours,  freshy  ?"  asked  Jenny. 

"  This  is  Mr.  Watson,"  the  young  man  continued,  plucking 
his  companion  by  the  sleeve.  "  I  say,"  he  added,  in  a  stage 
whisper,  "  who's  your  lady  friend  ?  Come  and  have  something 
to  drink  on  me." 

"Well,  now  you're  shoutin' — ain't  he,  Blanche?"  Jenny  cried, 
approvingly.  "You  must  have  struck  it  rich  up  your  way." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  hang  out  at  Arragon  Street  now,  Jenny.  Say, 
I  guess  you  wouldn't  go  back  there,  would  you  ?" 

"You're  too  damn  fresh,"  was  Jenny's  retort.  "Come  on 
with  you — do  you  think  me  and  my  lady  friend  can  stand  here 

393 


all  night  gabbing  with  the  likes  of  you  ?  Oh,  say,"  Jenny  add- 
ed, clutching  at  her  skirt  as  he  awkwardly  stuck  out  his  elbow 
in  token  of  his  willingness  to  escort  her,  "  do  the  Dolans  live  there 
yet?  I  saw  Maud — on  the  street — not  long  ago — " 

Maud !  Baretta  started  at  the  name,  but  Jenny's  voice  died 
away  in  the  distance,  and  his  eyes  rested  only  on  vacancy. 
Maud !  Who  was  the  girl  who  had  been  talking  about  Maud  ? 
— a  common  creature  like  that,  too.  He  was  conscious  of  a 
queer  feeling  of  compunction  as  he  wondered  if  Maud  herself 
would  ever  have  to  come  to  this — to  the  final  degradation  which 
was  the  lot  of  so  many  of  the  complaining  millions.  Oh  no ! 
no !  Maud  was  a  good  girl,  though  she  had  gone  back  on  him  at 
the  last.  What  did  it  matter,  after  all  ?  He  was  through  with 
friendship,  with  love — yes,  with  life  itself.  His  enemies  had 
hemmed  him  in,  and  there  was  but  one  way  out.  And  yet  it 
was  strange,  he  told  himself,  as  he  stumbled  to  his  feet,  that  a 
girl  like  that  should  have  been  talking  about  Maud.  It  would 
have  been  better,  far  better,  if  that  tiny  weapon  in  his  pocket 
had  had  time  to  do  its  work.  Ah,  that  was  the  only  way  in 
which  the  problem  of  existence  could  be  settled  !  And  it  was 
so  simple,  so  effectual !  "  There  are  blind  ways  provided  " — 
yes,  and  one  hemmed  in  by  his  enemies  could  find  such  a  way 
easily  enough.  Yes,  yes !  Baretta  muttered,  shaking  his  head, 
as  he  came  out  into  the  light  again,  stronger  somehow  in  the 
anticipation  of  the  thing  that  remained  for  him  to  do.  He 
would  find  one  of  the  blind  ways !  but  first  there  was  one  more 
enemy — nay,  two — to  be  punished.  And  he  knew  how  to  reach 
them  ;  oh  yes,  he  knew  that  well  enough  ! 

"  Look  out  there  !"  some  one  was  shouting.  Then  some  one 
else  plucked  him  sharply  by  the  arm  and  held  him  back  as  a 
cab  rattled  by.  "  Do  you  want  to  be  run  over  ?"  He  heard  the 
question,  but  he  did  not  answer  it.  The  mist  was  thicker  now, 
and  the  glare  of  the  electric  lights  gave  it  a  dazzling  radiance. 
The  huge  street-cars  proceeded  slowly  along  with  clanging  notes 
of  warning,  the  carriages  wound  in  and  out  between  them, 
and  two  meeting  throngs  of  theatre  -  goers  homeward  bound 
blocked  the  narrow  pavements.  Baretta  cast  a  bewildered 
glance  about  him  and  then  turned  back.  Had  he  forgotten 

394 


where  he  was  going  ?  If  it  were  indeed  Saturday  night  there 
would  be  a  crowd  of  men  in  a  certain  dingy  back  room  in  Eliot 
Street.  Oh  yes — they  might  close  the  bar  and  draw  the  blinds, 
but  the  men  in  the  back  room  would  not  go  until  long  after 
midnight.  There  was  time  enough  yet — time  enough  and  to 
spare. 

Ah,  one  could  breathe  more  freely  here  around  the  corner, 
away  from  that  surging  mass.  It  was  strange  that  he  should 
be  so  weak — that  he  should  tremble  so.  But  he  would  have 
strength  enough  for  that  which  was  left  him  to  do.  What  was 
this  ? — flashing  out  as  a  ray  of  light  from  the  door  of  a  saloon 
shot  across  the  street.  Silver !  he  picked  it  up  eagerly.  A  half- 
dollar  piece  was  a  fortune  to  a  man  without  a  single  penny,  who 
had  eaten  nothing  since  morning.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  the 
faintness  that  oppressed  him,  he  did  not  feel  hungry.  But  he 
was  chilled  through — and  now  everything  swayed  before  his 
eyes.  He  stood  irresolute,  fingering  the  coin.  Then  he  turned 
and  entered  the  saloon. 

"  Whiskey — yes,  whiskey,"  he  said,  flinging  himself  down  at 
one  of  the  little  tables  in  the  rear  of  the  room.  Half  a  dozen 
fellows  were  lounging  before  the  bar,  with  half-drained  glasses, 
and  they  all  turned  and  stared  at  him  silently.  "You  needn't 
be  shaking  your  heads  at  me,"  he  muttered,  defiantly.  "  It  ain't 
any  of  your  business."  Then  he  seized  the  glass  that  was  set 
before  him  and  drained  the  contents  at  a  single  gulp.  How  his 
throat  burned !  but  that  awful  sense  of  faintness  was  gone. 

What  were  these  men  at  the  next  table  talking  about?  "  What 
yer  givin'  us  ?"  said  one.  "  Lots  o'  fellers  ha'  been  murdered 
an'  no  one  the  wiser.  De  police  ?  Wat's  de  good  o'  de  police  ? 
Dem  cops  ain't  no  flyer  'n  you  or  me." 

"  Most  on  'em  gets  jugged,  just  the  same,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Does  dey  ?  Well,  I  know  better.  I  can  go  right  out  now 
'n'  slug  a  feller,  an'  if  dey  don't  see  me  dey'll  never  nab  me. 
Youse  can  betcher  sweet  life  on  dat !" 

"  Some  o'  youse  fellers  think  yer  damned  smart,"  observed 
another  man  with  a  sneer. 

"  Look  at  dat  feller  as  was  shot  over  in  Livingstone  Place," 
said  the  first  speaker,  unmoved  by  this  taunt.  "  Dey  haven't 

395 


found  who  did  the  job  yet,  have  dey  ?  No,  nor  won't,"  he 
added. 

"  No,  no — they  won't  find  him — oh,  they  won't  find  him  !" 
Baretta  cried,  leaning  forward  with  flushed  cheeks  and  eyes  that 
were  strangely  brilliant. 

The  others  turned  and  looked  at  hint  with  astonishment. 
"  What  in  hell  do  you  know  about  it,  young  feller  ?"  asked  the  man 
whose  estimate  of  the  ability  of  the  police  was  so  contemptuous. 

"  Never  mind  what  I  know,"  answered  Baretta.  "  Oh,  you'll 
find  out  —  to-morrow,  perhaps.  Yes,  yes — you'll  have  some- 
thing to  talk  about  to-morrow.  But  he  was  my  enemy.  Why 
shouldn't  a  man  kill  his  enemy  ?  Good  God  !"  he  cried,  rising 
to  his  feet,  "  do  you  understand  how  I  have  suffered  ? — and  not 
a  friend  left  in  the  world — not  one."  He  took  up  his  glass  and 
held  it  high  above  his  head.  "  But  I'll  grind  them  all  to  pow- 
der— I'll  smash  them  like  this !"  Then  he  threw  the  glass  upon 
the  floor  with  a  furious  gesture,  shattering  it  into  a  hundred 
fragments,  and  rushed  out. 

"Yes,  yes — I  will  smash  them,"  he  was  saying  as  he  hurried 
along  to  the  familiar  room  in  Eliot  Street  where  so  many  of  his 
old  acquaintances  must  now  be  gathered  together.  His  brain 
seemed  to  be  on  fire,  but  he  was  no  longer  faint  and  weak.  He 
knew  what  he  had  to  do,  and  he  would  be  strong  enough  for 
that.  When  he  reached  the  place  he  paused  for  a  minute,  gaz- 
ing like  one  in  a  dream  upon  the  motley  crowd  as  it  drifted  by. 
Some  roistering  young  fellows  were  singing  ribald  songs,  and 
chaffing  a  wretched  woman  who,  with  a  shawl  thrown  over  her 
head,  was  snivelling  in  all  the  maudlin  grief  of  intoxication. 
Then  a  rough-looking  man  came  along  and  told  them  with  an 
oath  to  let  the  poor  creature  alone ;  but  when  they  were  gone 
and  she  turned  to  him  for  sympathy  in  her  woes,  he  too  hurried 
away  and  left  her  standing  there.  The  complaining  millions ! 
oh  yes,  they  had  reason  enough  to  complain,  Baretta  was  say- 
ing to  himself.  And  he  had  given  the  best  years  of  his  life  to 
them,  and  without  avail.  He  would  leave  them  no  better  off 
than  he  had  found  them.  Everything  had  been  a  failure  ;  his 
own  career  was  completely  wrecked,  and  his  great  work  was  un- 
done. A  horrible  phantasmagoria  seemed  to  dance  before  his 

396 


eyes — dim  figures  from  the  past  mixing  with  the  figures  surging 
by  upon  the  pavement.  And  Maud's  face  was  as  distinct  as 
that  of  the  seedy  fellow  who,  shambling  along,  stopped  for  a 
moment  to  light  his  pipe,  hollowing  his  hand  against  the  wind 
to  protect  the  spattering  blue  flame  of  the  match.  Baretta 
gazed  vacantly  at  the  rusty  silk  hat  which  he  wore,  at  the  greasy 
and  threadbare  black  coat  which,  in  lieu  of  some  warmer  gar- 
ment, he  had  buttoned  tightly  about  him.  Suddenly  the  man 
turned  and  saw  Baretta  standing  there. 

"  Cold,  ain't  it  ?"  he  observed,  withdrawing  sociably  into  the 
doorway. 

"  Yes,  yes — it's  very  cold.  But  it  will  be  warm  enough  by- 
and-by." 

"  Next  summer,"  said  the  man,  with  a  grunt.  "  Whew  !"  he 
added,  with  a  shiver,  "  and  I  didn't  mind  the  cold  once.  You 
wouldn't  think  to  look  at  me  now,  would  you,  that  I  once  had 
plenty  of  money?" 

"  Money?  Oh,  there's  enough  that  have  money.  Damn  them, 
I  say  !"  Baretta  cried. 

"  What's  the  good  of  damning  them  ?  If  a  man's  got  money, 
he'd  better  stick  to  it.  That's  what  I  do,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh. 
"  I  shall  stick  to  the  ten  cents  in  my  pocket  because  it  will  buy 
me  a  breakfast  in  the  morning.  The  only  thing  that  worries  me 
is  that  I  sha'n't  have  a  red  cent  to  put  in  the  contribution  box. 
I'll  have  to  take  a  back  seat  at  church  to-morrow." 

"  Oh,  I  can  help  you  out,"  said  Baretta,  with  a  magnificent  air 
of  patronage.  He  thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  and  took  out 
the  change  from  the  half-dollar  which  he  had  found.  "Here's 
forty  cents — take  it." 

"  I  ain't  no  beggar,"  the  man  said,  angrily.  But  the  next  mo- 
ment he  stretched  out  his  hand  for  the  money.  "  God  bless 
you,  young  man,"  he  said,  with  a  sob.  "  I  was  a  gentleman  once, 
and  look  at  me  now.  I  had  money  enough — but  look  at  me. 
Drink,  sir — drink  and  women." 

"  Women  ! — they're  false — they  throw  you  over  at  the  last. 
Look  here  !"  Baretta  cried.  "  I  tried  to  kill  her — by  Heaven,  I 
did ! — but  I'm  glad  now  they  prevented  me.  It's  an  awful  thing 
to  kill  any  one — it's  worse  than  having  no  money.  You  can't 

397 


forget  it — you  see  them  before  you  always — here — here  !"    His 
voice  sank  to  a  hoarse  whisper. 

The  man  whom  he  had  befriended  looked  at  him  in  a  fright- 
ened way.  "It's  kinder  cold  standing  here,"  he  said,  hastily. 
Then  he  stepped '  out  into  the  street  again  and  hurried  off. 
"  Crazy  as  a  loon,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "  But  I'm  forty 
cents  in,  anyway." 

Baretta  did  not  notice  his  desertion.  "Always — always,"  he 
muttered.  "  But  no — it  will  be  over  soon.  They  can't  find 
me  then — not  one  of  them."  He  stood  a  moment  in  the  dark 
recess  with  his  hand  upon  the  knob.  Then  he  opened  the  door, 
and  entering,  closed  it  behind  him. 

398 


CHAPTER  XL 
THE    WAY    OUT 

"  IT  ees  no  free  country,"  Herr  Emil  said.  "You  are  slafes 
and  do  not  know  it.  Oh,  I  can  tell  you  sometings  about  dat.  I 
come  here  more  as  forty  years  ago,  and  I  see  greadt  shanges. 
Vat  our  frendt  Stefe-Luck  says  is  true.  You  vill  nefer  haf  your 
rights  miclout  you  fight  for  dem.  .It  ees  so  badt  as  Oesterreich. 
Ah,  'sist  schrecklich  /" 

Herr  Emil  was  in  an  unusually  eloquent  mood.  lie  did  not 
rest  content  with  this  simple  statement  of  facts.  He  warmed 
up  as  he  proceeded,  and  his  language  became  extremely  vi- 
tuperative. It  was  quite  to  the  taste  of  most  of  his  hearers. 
They  had  just  received  their  pay,  and  could  afford  to  be  revolu- 
tionary. In  a  few  days  they  would  be  wanting  capital  to  go  un- 
punished, at  least  until  the  end  of  the  week :  so  much  depends 
upon  the  point  of  view.  Now  they  thumped  their  beer  mugs 
with  vigour  when  Herr  Emil  predicted  bloodshed  and  anarchy. 
They  were  decidedly  impressed  with  this  new  friend  of  Luck's, 
of  whom  such  queer  stories  were  told.  His  presence  gave  their 
meetings  new  zest.  They  were  a  little  too  much  afraid  of  Dit- 
ton  to  be  really  fond  of  him,  while  Luck  soon  grew  tiresome. 
But  the  variety  of  Herr  Emil  was  infinite.  His  broken  English 
was  in  itself  a  revolt  against  the  established  order  which  pleased 
them.  It  was  almost  as  good  as  sitting  in  the  gallery  of  a  cheap 
theatre  to  hear  him  talk.  And  Herr  Emil's  childlike  enjoyment 
of  his  own  popularity  was  delightful  to  behold. 

His  absence  from  the  city  had  been  brief,  after  all.  When  he 
went  away  he  had  not  intended  to  come  back.  He  had  an  idea 
that  his  revelation  of  the  true  history  of  Baron  Smolzow  might 


somehow  incriminate  himself.  He  could  watch  the  denouement 
quite  as  well  from  a  safe  distance.  Besides,  there  was  no  doubt 
that  at  his  departure  he  had  appropriated  for  his  own  use  money 
and  other  valuables  which  did  not  belong  to  him.  This  might 
be  justifiable,  from  a  moral  point  of  view,  considering  all  he  had 
done,  or  tried  to  do,  in  behalf  of  his  son  the  Baron ;  but  the  law 
is  inclined  to  be  highly  unphilosophical.  So  he  contented  him- 
self at  first  with  reading  the  accounts  of  the  explosion  which  his 
hand  had  directed.  Everything  had  gone  well — yes,  very  well 
indeed.  It  was  rather  a  pity,  however,  that  the  chief  actor — for 
Herr  Emil  regarded  himself  as  the  real  hero  of  the  adventure — 
should  have  to  be  away  from  the  scene  ;  especially  when  the  op- 
portunities for  mischief  were  perhaps  not  quite  exhausted.  But 
there  was  great  news  for  Herr  Emil  one  day.  The  disappear- 
ance of  the  Baron  Was  something  he  had  not  counted  upon  ;  it 
changed  the  aspect  of  affairs.  "  Vare  der  teffle  has  he  gone  ?" 
Herr  Emil  asked  himself.  It  then  occurred  to  him  that  if  his 
son  had  reasons  for  leaving  the  city  there  was  nothing  to  keep 
him  from  going  back.  He  would  have  no  awkward  questions  to 
answer  about  the  money  he  had  taken.  And  then  he  was  really 
very  curious  to  learn  certain  details  with  which  even  the  news- 
papers did  not  acquaint  him.  He  could  construct  the  outlines 
of  the  story  well  enough,  but  there  must  be  several  little  episodes 
more  or  less  interesting,  of  which  he  knew  nothing.  Where  had 
the  young  man  gone?  He  did  not  care  much,  except  that  he 
wanted  to  be  sure  there  was  no  chance  of  his  coming  back. 
Francis  had  a  very  bad  temper ;  it  was  one  of  the  things  he  had 
inherited  from  his  mother ;  and  Herr  Emil  was  anxious  that 
there  should  be  no  violence.  Then  there  was  Maud — had  he 
taken  her  away?  "That  tarn  Maudt !"  Herr  Emil  muttered, 
vindictively. 

It  was  natural  enough  that  he  should  pay  no  particular  atten- 
tion to  the  story  about  Yates.  He  read  it  with  languid  interest. 
At  first  he  could  not  recall  why  the  name  was  so  familiar ;  but 
afterwards  he  remembered  some  of  his  son's  chance  allusions  to 
the  man  whom  he  seemed  to  regard  as  his  especial  enemy.  Yes, 
yes — that  was  it.  Francis  had  bade  him  take  his  revelations  to 
Yates.  But  he  had  discovered  excellent  reasons  for  taking  them 

400 


elsewhere.  Oh  yes — his  little  plot  had  been  very  successful. 
Still  it  was  so  much  better  to  see  for  one's  self.  He  had  no  in- 
terest in  Yates ;  and  yet  it  was  odd  that  the  name  should  keep 
recurring  to  him.  Pah !  that  was  a  commonplace  tale — a  man 
shot,  and  no  one  knew  by  whom.  It  was  not  until  he  was  on  his 
way  back  to  Boston  that  the  possible  connection  between  this 
mysterious  crime  and  the  disappearance  of  Baron  Smolzow  was 
suggested  to  him.  It  came  upon  him  like  a  sudden  blow ;  then 
he  execrated  himself  for  being  so  stupid  as  not  to  have  suspected 
before.  Of  course — it  was  all  plain  enough  now :  the  web  of 
conjecture  put  forth  in  the  copy  of  the  Banner,  which  he  had  in 
his  hand,  was  most  ingenious.  "  Mon  Dieu  !  quelle  betise  /"  Herr 
Emil  muttered.  Yes,  yes — it  was  very  plain.  His  coup  had 
been  more  fertile  in  results  than  he  had  anticipated.  He  was 
more  eager  than  ever  to  get  back  to  Boston,  and  talk  things 
over  with  his  friend  Stefe-Luck,  who  was  a  fool,  to  be  sure,  but 
for  that  reason  all  the  more  useful.  And  yet  possibly  Stefe- 
Luck  was  not  altogether  a  fool  after  all.  He  had  at  least  dis- 
covered a  solution  to  one  very  important  problem  that  had  long 
vexed  Herr  Emil's  existence.  He  had  learned  how  to  live  well 
— even  luxuriously — without  the  necessity  of  working  or  the 
risk  of  breaking  the  law.  Ah,  that  Stefe-Luck  was  a  clever  man, 
after  all :  tres  adroit,  to  have  discovered  what  had  baffled  so 
many  people.  Yes,  yes,  he  must  see  Stefe-Luck  again. 

Thus  it  was  that  Herr  Erail  was  enabled  to  play  his  part  in 
the  redemption  of  the  complaining  millions  from  the  bondage 
under  which  they  suffered.  The  only  obstacle  still  in  his  way 
was  the  dislike  which  Ditton  felt  for  him — Ditton,  who  was  no 
doubt  inspired  by  envy  of  his.immense  talent  for  oratory.  The 
Socialist  preacher  was  even  now  regarding  him  with  knitted 
brows  from  the  corner  where  he  sat.  Herr  Emil's  sentiments 
were  unobjectionable,  but  he  himself  did  not  inspire  confidence. 
Ditton  set  him  down  as  a  rascal ;  in  which,  as  the  reader  has 
reason  to  believe,  he  was  not  without  justification.  But  he 
knew  his  followers  too  well  to  take  them  into  his  confidence.  It 
was  well  to  give  even  a  rascal  plenty  of  rope,  if  one  took  care  to 
be  in  the  neighbourhood  when  it  was  time  for  the  hanging. 

" <7a,  ,/ffl/"  Herr  Emil  cried,  waving  his  arms  violently.     "It 

2o  401 


somehow  incriminate  himself.  He  could  watch  the  denouement 
quite  as  well  from  a  safe  distance.  Besides,  there  was  no  doubt 
that  at  his  departure  he  had  appropriated  for  his  own  use  money 
and  other  valuables  which  did  not  belong  to  him.  This  might 
be  justifiable,  from  a  moral  point  of  view,  considering  all  he  had 
done,  or  tried  to  do,  in  behalf  of  his  son  the  Baron ;  but  the  law 
is  inclined  to  be  highly  unphilosophical.  So  he  contented  him- 
self at  first  with  reading  the  accounts  of  the  explosion  which  his 
hand  had  directed.  Everything  had  gone  well — yes,  very  well 
indeed.  It  was  rather  a  pity,  however,  that  the  chief  actor — for 
Herr  Emil  regarded  himself  as  the  real  hero  of  the  adventure — 
should  have  to  be  away  from  the  scene  ;  especially  when  the  op- 
portunities for  mischief  were  perhaps  not  quite  exhausted.  But 
there  was  great  news  for  Herr  Emil  one  day.  The  disappear- 
ance of  the  Baron  tvas  something  he  had  not  counted  upon  ;  it 
changed  the  aspect  of  affairs.  "  Vare  der  teffle  has  he  gone  ?" 
Herr  Emil  asked  himself.  It  then  occurred  to  him  that  if  his 
son  had  reasons  for  leaving  the  city  there  was  nothing  to  keep 
him  from  going  back.  He  would  have  no  awkward  questions  to 
answer  about  the  money  he  had  taken.  And  then  he  was  really 
very  curious  to  learn  certain  details  with  which  even  the  news- 
papers did  not  acquaint  him.  He  could  construct  the  outlines 
of  the  story  well  enough,  but  there  must  be  several  little  episodes 
more  or  less  interesting,  of  which  he  knew  nothing.  Where  had 
the  young  man  gone  ?  He  did  not  care  much,  except  that  he 
wanted  to  be  sure  there  was  no  chance  of  his  coining  back. 
Francis  had  a  very  bad  temper ;  it  was  one  of  the  things  he  had 
inherited  from  his  mother ;  and  Herr  Emil  was  anxious  that 
there  should  be  no  violence.  Then  there  was  Maud — had  he 
taken  her  away  ?  "  That  tarn  Maudt !"  Herr  Emil  muttered, 
vindictively. 

It  was  natural  enough  that  he  should  pay  no  particular  atten- 
tion to  the  story  about  Yates.  He  read  it  with  languid  interest. 
At  first  he  could  not  recall  why  the  name  was  so  familiar ;  but 
afterwards  he  remembered  some  of  his  son's  chance  allusions  to 
the  man  whom  he  seemed  to  regard  as  his  especial  enemy.  Yes, 
yes — that  was  it.  Francis  had  bade  him  take  his  revelations  to 
Yates.  But  he  had  discovered  excellent  reasons  for  taking  them 

400 


elsewhere.  Oh  yes — his  little  plot  had  been  very  successful. 
Still  it  was  so  much  better  to  see  for  one's  self.  He  had  no  in- 
terest in  Yates ;  and  yet  it  was  odd  that  the  name  should  keep 
recurring  to  him.  Pah !  that  was  a  commonplace  tale — a  man 
shot,  and  no  one  knew  by  whom.  It  was  not  until  he  was  on  his 
way  back  to  Boston  that  the  possible  connection  between  this 
mysterious  crime  and  the  disappearance  of  Baron  Smolzow  was 
suggested  to  him.  It  came  upon  him  like  a  sudden  blow ;  then 
he  execrated  himself  for  being  so  stupid  as  not  to  have  suspected 
before.  Of  course — it  was  all  plain  enough  now :  the  web  of 
conjecture  put  forth  in  the  copy  of  the  Banner,  which  he  had  in 
his  hand,  was  most  ingenious.  "  Mon  Dieu, !  quelle  betise  /"  Herr 
Emil  muttered.  Yes,  yes — it  was  very  plain.  His  coup  had 
been  more  fertile  in  results  than  he  had  anticipated.  He  was 
more  eager  than  ever  to  get  back  to  Boston,  and  talk  things 
over  with  his  friend  Stefe-Luck,  who  was  a  fool,  to  be  sure,  but 
for  that  reason  all  the  more  useful.  And  yet  possibly  Stefe- 
Luck  was  not  altogether  a  fool  after  all.  He  had  at  least  dis- 
covered a  solution  to  one  very  important  problem  that  had  long 
vexed  Herr  Emil's  existence.  He  had  learned  how  to  live  well 
— even  luxuriously— without  the  necessity  of  working  or  the 
risk  of  breaking  the  law.  Ah,  that  Stefe-Luck  was  a  clever  man, 
after  all :  tres  adroit,  to  have  discovered  what  had  baffled  so 
many  people.  Yes,  yes,  he  must  see  Stefe-Luck  again. 

Thus  it  was  that  Herr  Emil  was  enabled  to  play  his  part  in 
the  redemption  of  the  complaining  millions  from  the  bondage 
under  which  they  suffered.  The  only  obstacle  still  in  his  way 
was  the  dislike  which  Ditton  felt  for  him — Ditton,  who  was  no 
doubt  inspired  by  envy  of  his,immense  talent  for  oratory.  The 
Socialist  preacher  was  even  now  regarding  him  with  knitted 
brows  from  the  corner  where  he  sat.  Herr  Emil's  sentiments 
were  unobjectionable,  but  he  himself  did  not  inspire  confidence. 
Ditton  set  him  down  as  a  rascal ;  in  which,  as  the  reader  has 
reason  to  believe,  he  was  not  without  justification.  But  he 
knew  his  followers  too  well  to  take  them  into  his  confidence.  It 
was  well  to  give  even  a  rascal  plenty  of  rope,  if  one.  took  care  to 
be  in  the  neighbourhood  when  it  was  time  for  the  hanging. 

"Ja,jaJ"  Herr  Emil  cried,  waving  his  arms  violently.     "It 

2o  401 


ees  no  free  country  at  all.  Ve  are  slafcs  to  the  men  who  go  on 
piling  up  their  tollars.  Vat  dey  care  for  you,  for  me  ?  De  tol- 
lars— dey  pile  dem  up,  and  ve  take  a  leetle  few  pennies.  Mein 
Gott !  vare  do  ve  arrive  presently  ?  Let  me  tell  you  a  story.  I 
go  one  day  to  see  a  reech  man.  He  haf  a  fine  house — oh,  schon, 
schon — he  haf  everytings  he  veesh.  And  who  gafe  it  to  him  ? 
Vy,  you  did — you  men  who  vork  and  labour ;  who  lif  in  rags 
and  haf  notings  to  eat,  so  that  der  reech  can  pile  up  de  tollars ! 
It  ees  shame  to  you  to  permit  it !" 

"  He's  right !"  Luck  cried  at  this  point,  rising  to  his  feet. 
"What  he  says  is  true — every  damn  word  of  it.  Look  here!  you 
know  how  those  poor  fellows  in  Lynn  were  locked  out  the  other 
day  because  they  wanted  a  raise  of  ten  cents  a  day.  Well,  what 
do  you  suppose  the  owners  of  the  mills — the  men  who  didn't 
care  whether  their  employes  starved  or  not — what  do  you  sup- 
pose they  get  out  of  it  ?  I  tell  you,  every  one  of  them  is  worth 
his  millions — ground  out  of  the  sweat  and  blood — yes,  the  blood 
— of  the  working-man.  And  blood  for  blood,  I  say  !" 

"JSien,  bienf"  Herr  Emil  cried.     "It  ees  blood  we  veesh." 

"  Oh,  you  like  to  talk  !"  said  Ditton,  sneeringly.  He  rose  and 
came  down  the  room  towards  the  speaker.  "  But  I  guess  if  it 
ever  comes  to  fighting  you  will  take  precious  good  care  to  keep 
out  of  the  way." 

"  Moi !  I  know  what  it  ees  to  fight.  I  haf  been  in  battle  in 
mein  own  landt — I  vas  fighting  for  your  country  ven  you  vas 
safe  at  home." 

"  Well,  what's  the  good  of  fighting  among  ourselves  ?"  inter- 
posed Luck.  "  You  seem  to  think,  Mr.  Ditton,  that  no  one's  got 
no  right  to  speak  but  you.  My  friend  Emeel  knows  what  he's 
talking  about — see  ?" 

"Ja,ja,  Stefe-Luck.     I  know,  I  know." 

"  And  when  he  says  we  must  have  blood  he  tells  the  truth. 
We  can't  do  no  good  by  setting  round  and  gassing  about  it," 
Luck  went  on.  "  How  many  working-men  are  there  in  this  city  ? 
Thousands  of  'em,  and  if  every  one  stands  out  like  a  man, 
armed  and  ready  to  fight  for  his  rights  —  why,  do  you  sup- 
pose we're  afraid  of  the  police  ?  miserable,  skulking  cowards ! 
Half  of  'em  would  be  on  our  side  if  they  thought  we  were 

402 


going  to  come  out  on  top.  Blood !  Why  shouldn't  we  have 
blood  ?" 

At  this  moment  the  outer  door  was  flung  open.  "  Blood  ! 
By  Heaven,  yes !  But  hear  me  first !"  And  Baretta,  with  a 
white  and  wild  face,  burst  in  upon  the  astonished  assembly. 
"  Hear  me  !  you  shall  hear  me  !"  he  shrieked. 

Instantly  the  whole  room  was  in  confusion.  Some  of  the 
men,  being  new-comers,  had  never  seen  him  before,  and  these 
looked  at  their  neighbours  blankly  for  an  explanation  of  so 
strange  an  interruption.  But  the  rest  rose  to  their  feet,  and 
something  like  one  huge  menacing  growl  seemed  to  rise  from 
their  lips. 

"  Hear  me !"  Baretta  repeated,  shutting  the  door  behind  him 
and  standing  against  it.  "  You  shall  not  go  except  over  my 
dead  body.  Fools !  it  is  for  your  sakes  I  am  here.  There 
is  danger  —  yes,  danger,  out  there  —  and  I  am  here  to  warn 
you." 

Then  it  was  that  Ditton  rose  and  called  upon  the  men  in  ring- 
ing tones  to  remain  seated.  "  I  will  attend  to  this  person,"  Dit- 
ton said,  motioning  to  Luck  to  come  with  him.  Luck  had  been 
the  first  to  give  utterance  to  execrations  at  the  sight  of  Baretta, 
the  man  who  had  been  an  enemy  to  him  and  a  traitor  to  them 
all.  But  upon  Herr  Emil,  on  the  other  hand,  this  unexpected 
episode  had  exercised  a  curious  effect.  At  the  sound  of  his 
son's  voice  he  had  turned  very  pale,  and  after  one  quick  glance 
had  sat  down,  covering  his  face  with  one  hand.  If  anybody  had 
been  watching  him  he  would  have  observed  that  the  hand  trem- 
bled visibly. 

"  I'll  put  him  out !"  Luck  cried,  with  a  curse.  The  audi- 
ence made  way  for  the  two  men  as  they  advanced.  But  sud- 
denly they  stopped,  and  Luck  threw  up  both  hands  abjectly. 
"  Don't  shoot !  for  God's  sake,  don't  shoot !" 

For  Baretta  had  drawn  his  revolver,  and  was  now  flourishing 
it  wildly.  "  Stand  back !  I  tell  you  you  must  hear  me  !  It 
won't  be  for  long,"  he  added,  with  a  wild  laugh,  "  but  you 
must  hear  me." 

"  We're  through  with  yow,"  said  Ditton,  facing  him  calmly 
after  a  scornful  glance  at  Luck.  "  When  a  man  goes  back  on 

403 


us  once  we  never  trust  him  again.    There's  nothing  you  can  say 
that  we  want  to  hear.     Now  go  !  before  you're  put  out." 

"  Go !"  Even  Ditton  shuddered  and  quailed  a  little  before 
the  fiery  glare  of  madness  in  Baretta's  eyes.  "  Go !  not  till 
you've  heard  me.  Oh,  I  know  you,  Ditton  ;  I  know  Avhat  a  friend 
you've  been  to  me.  Curse  you !  You  thought  you  could  throw 
me  aside  and  trample  on  me,  but  I'll  have  my  revenge  yet.  Why 
did  you  believe  that  man's  stories  ?  He's  not  my  father — I  am 
Baron  Smolzow,  and  I  defy  you  all  to  prove  that  I'm  not.  It 
was  a  conspiracy — that's  what  it  was.  Oh  yes,  I'm  not  such  a 
fool  as  not  to  know  that." 

"  How  long  are  you  going  to  listen  to  his  gab  ?"  asked  Luck, 
taking  good  pains  to  keep  Ditton's  gaunt  figure  between  him- 
self and  the  gleaming  barrel  of  the  revolver. 

"Oh,  that's  you,  is  it,  Luck?"  Baretta  cried.  "Damn  you! 
do  you  suppose  I'm  going  to  let  you  escape  ?  You,  who  went 
to  Yates  with  your  lies?  See  here — all  of  you — listen  to  me. 
It's  justice  that  I  want.  Don't  stand  there  muttering  that  I'm 
not  Baron  Smolzow.  I  am,  I  tell  you  !  Do  you  forget  all  I've 
done  for  you  ?  Why,  I  sacrificed  everything  to  help  you,  and 
see  where  I  am  now.  Not  a  friend  in  the  world  left — -not  even 
Maud.  And  I  tried  to  kill  her  too.  But  Yates — he'll  die  fast 
enough.  Yes,  I  say — I  gave  up  my  life  for  you,  and  how  have 
I  been  rewarded?  I've  come  now  to  warn  you,  and  you  only 
laugh  at  me.  There's  men  outside — hundreds  of  them — waiting 
to  come  in  and  kill  you.  All  the  rich  men  in  the  city — they've 
got  a  cannon  out  there.  Run  !  run  !  every  one  of  you.  All  but 
Luck,  and  you,  Ditton  !  Oh  yes,  he  left  me  this,"  Baretta  cried, 
flourishing  the  revolver  again,  "  and  I  mean  to  kill  you  both  !" 

"  0  Lord !"  Luck's  teeth  chattered  and  his  knees  knocked 
together  as  he  spoke.  "  Look  out  for  him  !  Grab  him  some- 
body !  Why  don't  somebody  grab  him  ?" 

Ditton  still  stood  his  ground,  calm  and  fearless.  He  under- 
stood now  what  the  penalty  was  that  Fate  had  inflicted  upon 
the  young  man — how  far  beyond  the  reach  of  human  vengeance 
he  was.  "  I  don't  think  you  quite  understand  what  you're  say- 
ing, Baretta.  Come  and  talk  it  over  quietly.  We're  not  your 
enemies — we're  your  friends." 

404 


"  Oh  no !"  Baretta  said,  with  a  cunning  smile.  "  I  know 
better  than  that.  Yes,  yes — the  time  has  gone  by  for  deceiving 
me.  I  know  who  my  friends  are — and  who  my  enemies.  And 
to  think  that  I  should  have  sacrificed  my  whole  life  for  you ! 
They're  waiting  for  me  outside  there,  too.  The  police  are  after 
me  ;  Maud  told  me  so.  They  say  I  killed  Yates.  Damn  him  ! 
why  shouldn't  I  kill  him  ?  But  he  was  your  enemy  as  well  as 
mine.  It's  he  who  sent  all  these  men.  But  he'll  die — oh  yes, 
he'll  die!  I  don't  care  now.  She  threw  me  off  —  she  loves 
him  still,  and  she  threw  me  off."  He  raised  the  revolver  once 
more  and  patted  it  affectionately.  "  This  is  the  best  friend  I've 
got  in  the  world — yes,  yes  !" 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Herr  Emil  made  the  mistake  of  tak- 
ing away  the  hand  that  hid  his  face.  The  conversation  was  be- 
coming extremely  interesting  to  him,  and  he  quite  forgot  the 
necessity  of  effacing  himself.  At  the  same  moment  Ditton 
moved  forward  a  step  or  two,  and  the  glances  of  father  and  son 
met. 

"  Baretta,  you  are  mistaken,"  Ditton  began.  But  the  young 
man  interrupted  him  with  a  wild  cry  and  dashed  headlong  down 
the  room,  the  crowd  falling  back  in  instinctive  terror  and  giving 
him  a  free  passage. 

"  You  devil !  you  devil !"  Baretta  cried,  while  Herr  Emil 
sprang  up  and  tried  to  escape  by  leaping  over  the  table  at  which 
he  had  been  sitting.  "  You  here !  you !  who  ruined  me  with 
your  vile  lies.  You — you  !" 

He  aimed  his  revolver  at  his  father's  head  and  fired.  At  this 
a  dozen  men  tried  to  pinion  him,  but  he  eluded  them  all.  "  Yes," 
he  cried,  wildly,  "  and  you,  Luck  !  and  you,  Ditton  !" 

Two  more  shots  rang  out,  and  the  blue  smoke  seemed  to  fill 
the  room,  and  somehow  to  stifle  even  the  loud  voices  crying  out 
in  a  vague  tumult  of  alarm.  But  as  it  cleared  away  they  all 
saw  Baretta  standing  with  a  smile  upon  his  face,  with  the  muz- 
zle of  his  weapon  pressed  close  to  his  temple.  "I  '11  get  the 
better  of  you  all !"  he  cried.  Then  there  was  another  shot,  and 
the  dark  form  swayed  and  fell. 

It  was  Ditton  who  bent  over  him,  vainly  trying  to  call  him 
back  to  life.  "  Go  for  a  doctor — call  the  police — some  of  you  !" 

405 


he  said,  in  the  sharp  tone  of  command  habitual  to  him.  But 
there'  were  tears  in  his  eyes  as  he  gazed  upon  the  dead  face. 
He  had  only  pity  and  regret  now  for  the  young  man  whose  life 
had  ended  so  tragically.  His  hopes  in  him  had  faded  long 
ago,  and  yet  there  was  a  touch  of  sympathy  in  his  heart.  He 
could  not  forget  that  he  once  had  cared  for  him  and  believed  in 
him.  There  could  be  nothing  more  awful  than  the  spectacle  of 
a  life  thus  wrecked  that  had  promised  so  much.  His  mind  went 
back  to  the  early  days  of  their  intercourse,  and  he  saw  only  his 
old  friend  and  pupil  lying  there — that  ghastly  smile  frozen  upon 
his  face,  the  dark  blood  oozing  from  his  lips.  To  die  like  that ! 
was  it  not  a  cruel  expiation  for  his  sins  ?  "  Poor  fellow  !"  Dit- 
ton  said  to  himself. 

"  He's  dead,  is  he  ?"  asked  Luck,  coming  forward  with  a  swag- 
ger. Now  that  there  was  no  danger  he  could  afford  to  affect 
the  reckless  bearing  of  a  man  who  holds  life  cheaply.  "  Well, 
he  was  a  crazy  fool  and  no  mistake." 

"  The  less  you  say,  Luck,  the  better,"  Ditton  retorted. 

"  So !  so !"  interrupted  the  voice  of  Herr  Emil,  who  had  ap- 
proached unobserved.  He  felt  the  contempt  in  Ditton's  face 
when  the  preacher  looked  up  at  him  for  a  moment,  but  he  chose 
to  ignore  it.  "  Mein  Gott !  he  made  a  fool  of  himself."  Then 
he  saw  the  revolver  lying  in  his  son's  nerveless  grasp,  and,  stoop- 
ing down,  took  it  from  him.  "  So  !"  Herr  Emil  said  once  more, 
rubbing  it  with  his  sleeve.  "  It  ees  mine." 

406 


CHAPTER  XLI 
MRS.  CAD  WALL  ADER'S  PROPHECY 

"  OH,  I  made  him  promise  to  come,  and  I  am  sure  he  will  not 
forget."  Mrs.  Cadwallader  laughed  and  glanced  at  Mildred, 
who  was  talking  to  Mr.  Cadwallader.  She  was  sure  that  Mildred 
coloured  a  little,  although  she  pretended  not  to  hear.  "  It's  the 
first  time  he  has  been  anywhere,  but  you  know  I  am  an  old 
friend." 

"  Of  course,"  Daisy  said,  laughing,  too  ;  "  we  know  he  would 
do  anything  for  you." 

"  Only  for  me  ?  They  say  that  we  married  women  are  danger- 
ous, but  that's  a  mistake.  But  he  will  stay  and  dine  with  us, 
and  then — " 

"  Every  one  is  so  pleased,  to  be  sure,"  interrupted  Daisy, 
hastily.  "  It  ought  to  be  very  flattering  to  Philip — to  Mr. 
Yates — to  find  himself  so  popular." 

Mrs.  Cadwallader  was  an  observant  person,  and  she  had  no 
difficulty  in  deciding  that  Daisy  was  blushing  now.  How  stu- 
pid she  was  not  to  have  suspected  the  truth  before !  she  said  to 
herself.  It  added  an  emotional  complication  to  the  situation 
which  was  immensely  interesting.  She  had  supposed  that  the 
quarrel  between  Philip  and  Mildred  would  now  be  made  up.  It 
was  the  way  everything  would  end  in  a  novel,  and  it  would  be 
most  unnatural  if  the  result  were  otherwise  in  real  life.  She 
never  had  understood  just  what  the  cause  of  their  quarrel  had 
been.  Philip  was  a  dreadfully  nice  fellow,  and  they  were  very 
good  friends ;  but  he  had  never  chosen  to  confide  in  her ;  he 
was  unsympathetic  in  some  respects,  as  all  men  are  apt  to  be. 
She  knew  that  he  had  suffered  keenly ;  he  had  not  succeeded 

407 


in  concealing  that  fact  from  her.  As  to  Mildred's  feelings  she 
was  less  sure.  Mildred  was  a  self-contained  girl ;  not  like 
Daisy,  who  had  moments  of  expansive  confidence,  although 
she,  too,  had  kept  one  secret  pretty  well.  Mrs.  Cadwallader 
was  very  fond  of  Daisy,  but  perhaps  she  was  a  little  disap~ 
pointed,  none  the  less,  at  the  turn  affairs  were  taking.  Mildred 
was  the  prettier,  to  her  mind,  and  she  had  greater  distinction 
of  manner,  which  was  something  on  which  a  man  choosing  a 
wife  ought  to  lay  stress.  And  then  it  was  so  aggravating  to  be 
cheated  out  of  the  proper  ending  to  the  romance  !  not  at  all  like 
a  novel  in  any  way. 

"  Yes,  indeed — we  all  like  him,"  Mrs.  Cadwallader  said,  reply- 
ing to  Daisy's  remark.  "  Oh,  he  will  be  made  quite  a  hero  of ; 
we  shall  hardly  get  a  chance  to  speak  to  him.  That's  why  I 
made  him  promise  to  stay  to  dinner.  I  dare  say,"  she  added, 
"  that  things  will  be  the  same  now  " — she  dropped  her  voice  to 
a  whisper — "  as  they  were  once." 

It  was  rather  a  vague  speech,  but  Daisy  understood  it.  "  Oh 
yes,"  she  said,  rather  tremulously,  "  it  was  all  so — so  absurd." 

"  What  are  you  two  conspirators  whispering  about  ?"  Mr. 
Cadwallader  asked,  coming  up  to  the  table  where  his  wife  was 
sitting.  "  Come,  now,  pour  a  cup  of  tea  for  Miss  Lawrence.  I 
want  to  take  her  off  in  a  corner  and  monopolize  her  society 
while  I  have  a  chance." 

"Oh,  Mildred,  Mildred!"  Mrs.  Cadwallader  sighed.  "Do 
you  hear  my  husband's  shameless  confession  ?" 

"  It's  a  modest  confession,  anyway,"  said  Mr.  Cadwallader. 
"  It  implies  a  fitting  sense  of  my  lack  of  ability  to  make  myself 
entertaining." 

"  Have  you  really  found  that  out?"  And  having  made  this 
malicious  remark,  Mrs.  Cadwallader  looked  away  to  greet  two 
new  arrivals.  "  Ah,  Mrs.  Stanwood — so  kind  of  you  to  come. 
And  Miss  Linley — why  didn't  you  bring  Annie  with  you  ?" 
And  after  that  there  was,  indeed,  no  chance  to  monopolize  any- 
body's society.  It  was  Mrs.  Cadwallader's  last  afternoon  for 
the  season,  and  all  her  friends  were  out  in  force. 

Philip  felt  the  exhilarating  influence  of  the  warmth  and 
brightness  of  this  clear  spring  day  as  he  drove  from  his  rooms 

408 


in  Livingstone  Place  to  Mrs.  Cadwallader's  charming  apartments. 
Even  in  March  there  is  warmth  and  brightness  sometimes.  Mrs. 
Cadwallader  had  made  him  promise  to  come,  as  she  had  told 
Daisy ;  otherwise  he  might  have  been  inclined  to  stay  away. 
He  was  conscious  of  a  curious  feeling  of  shyness — a  feeling 
which  was  absurd  even  when  one  had  been  cut  off  from  the 
world  so  long.  It  was  not  because  he  dreaded  meeting  Mildred — 
that  was  one  of  the  follies  which  had  passed  away  during  his 
long  illness ;  upon  this  point  he  was  very  positive.  No,  they 
must  meet  as  formal  acquaintances ;  it  was  the  only  solution 
of  the  difficulty ;  it  was  the  only  way  of  teaching  the  world  to 
forget  that  they  had  ever  been  more  than  that.  Ah  yes — one's 
whole  point  of  view  alters  so  greatly  after  weeks  of  pain  and 
imprisonment.  And  Mildred  had  not  even  cared  enough  to 
send  him  a  single  message  of  sympathy  !  Even  when  they  said 
he  was  dying  her  heart  was  not  touched,  although  once  she  had 
loved  him.  Pooh  !  what  did  women  know  about  love  ?  he  said 
to  himself,  bitterly.  If  she  had  ever  cared  for  him  at  all  she 
would  at  least  have  sent  him  a  single  message  then.  Even 
Daisy  had  come  to  ask  after  him.  It  will  be  seen  that  his 
mother  had  given  him  no  hint  of  the  episode  which  had  caused 
Mildred  so  much  humiliation.  She  would  not  have  told  him  a 
falsehood,  of  course,  if  he  had  asked  any  questions  ;  but  she 
carried  out  this  tacit  deception  without  scruple.  She  felt  that 
she  would  be  very  glad  to  have  her  son  forget  Miss  Lawrence 
altogether.  He  had  never  been  the  same  man  since  that  unfort- 
unate love  affair.  She  regarded  it  as  quite  providential,  on  the 
whole,  that  she  had  been  there  to  intercept  the  note  and  the 
flowers,  so  eager  are  we  fools  of  Nature  to  interfere  with  the 
decrees  of  Fate.  Thus  Mildred's  name  was  never  mentioned  be- 
tween them.  Why,  indeed,  should  it  be,  since  Philip  had  van- 
quished so  completely  the  folly  of  loving  her  ? 

And  yet  it  certainly  was  a  little  hard  to  think  that  his  interfer- 
ence in  her  behalf  had  nearly  cost  him  his  life,  and  that  she  was  not 
grateful  enough  to  make  a  single  friendly  overture  in  acknowl- 
edgment. Of  course  he  had  expected  nothing;  he  had  made 
Daisy  promise  not  to  tell  Mildred  what  he  had  done.  But  he 
was  somehow  sure  that  Mildred  must  know.  The  fact  that  Ba- 

409 


rctta  had  fired  the  shot  was  no  longer  any  mystery  to  the  world ; 
the  clew  had  been  revealed  by  Philip's  iteration  of  his  name,  by 
a  hundred  other  utterances  of  his  delirium,  and  the  sensational 
ending  of  Baretta's  life  had  completed  the  chain  of  evidence.  It 
was  comparatively  easy  for  any  one,  knowing  a  part  of  the  story, 
to  surmise  the  rest.  There  was  much,  of  course,  that  Philip  him- 
self did  not  understand — much  that  was  buried  in  the  grave  of 
the  strange  and  miserable  young  man  who  was  perhaps  not  un- 
worthy of  pity  as  well  as  rebuke.  During  the  days  of  his  con- 
valescence, however,  this  or  that  hint  came  to  him.  Daisy  had 
written  a  long  letter  in  which  she  told  poor  Maud's  story,  and 
how  at  the  last  she  had  wished  to  save  the  man  she  loved.  "  I 
shall  try  to  be  a  true  friend  to  her,"  Daisy  had  said.  A  true 
friend  !  Ah  yes,  Daisy  was  that  always ;  not  like  other  women, 
who  were  hard  and  unforgiving  even  in  the  shadow  of  death. 
But  he  had  succeeded  in  the  task  he  undertook,  and  if  success 
had  cost  him  bitter  suffering,  what  did  it  matter,  after  all  ? 
There  was  something  which  the  wretched  newspapers  did  not 
know,  at  all  events,  and  never  should  know.  It  is  silence  that 
one  finds  in  the  grave ;  and  Baretta  was  dead.  Poor  devil ! 
— Philip  was  conscious  of  a  pang  of  pity  as  he  reflected  upon 
that  tragic  episode,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  death  by  Baretta's 
hands  had  nearly  been  his  portion,  too. 

But  such  a  day  as  this  was  no  time  for  gloomy  thoughts. 
Philip  leaned  back  in  the  carriage  and  drank  in  the  soft  air  lux- 
uriously. He  was  profoundly  grateful  for  life — the  life  that 
had  once  seemed  to  him  so  empty  and  dreary.  There  was,  per- 
haps, no  such  thing  as  happiness  in  this  world.  One,  however, 
could  be  comfortable  and  contented.  To  feel  the  blood  pulsing 
through  one's  veins  after  weeks  of  pain  and  languor  gave  one 
the  keenest  pleasure.  He  was  not  quite  himself  yet,  to  be 
sure ;  his  wound  had  been  dangerous  enough  to  make  recovery 
slow.  Even  now  it  might  be  months  before  all  his  old  strength 
came  back  to  him.  He  was  going  away  in  a  few  days  ;  his 
doctor  had  recommended  a  sea-voyage,  and  he  had  decided  to 
take  one  of  the  Norddeutscher  Lloyd  steamships  to  Genoa,  and 
when  the  warmer  weather  came  move  slowly  northward.  He 
would  spend  the  first  part  of  his  holiday  in  the  Riviera ;  then 

410 


perhaps  he  would  go  to  Homburg,  and  in  August  to  Scotland. 
Surely  his  health  would  be  fully  restored  by  that  time,  and 
Lord  Shetland  had  promised  him  some  good  shooting  if  he 
would  come.  It  would  be  the  best  thing,  in  any  case,  to  get 
away  from  all  the  old  associations ;  there  was  little  satisfaction 
in  renewing  them  now.  Let  it  be  as  if,  indeed,  his  life  had 
been  taken  from  him  by  Baretta's  hand.  Oh  yes !  across  the 
wide  Atlantic  one  could  forget  so  easily.  Perhaps  he  was  a 
fool  to  go  to  Mrs.  Cadwallader's  this  afternoon.  It  would  be  a 
bore  if  people  talked  to  him  about  the  episode  which  he  was  so 
anxious  to  blot  out  altogether.  But  he  could  not  very  well  re- 
fuse when  Mrs.  Cadwallader  had  made  such  a  point  of  it.  And, 
after  all,  it  was  worth  while  to  be  able  to  go  anywhere.  Why 
should  he  worry  over  what  people  might  say  or  think  ? — what  did 
he  care  ? 

There  were  a  good  many  visitors  in  the  dainty  rooms  which 
all  artistic  Boston  raved  over,  and  Philip,  whose  face  was  hag- 
gard despite  the  slight  glow  which  the  air  had  brought  to  his 
cheeks,-succeeded  in  entering  unobserved  except  by  one  or  two 
who  knew  him  and  who  came  up  to  shake  hands  with  him.  But 
after  that  it  was  of  course  impossible  that  he  should  escape  the 
attentions  from  which  he  shrank.  People  might  not  know  ex- 
actly what  Baretta's  motive  had  been,  but  the  whisper  had  gone 
forth  that  Philip  had  incurred  his  vengeance  by  interfering  to 
save  some  one  from  scandal,  that  he  had  even  tried  to  save 
Baretta  himself,  although  that  well-meant  effort  had  failed  so 
signally.  There  was  a  mystery,  anyway,  and  that  was  enough 
to  make  the  central  figure  in  it  a  temporary  object  of  pursuit 
by  lion  hunters.  It  was  said  that  Miss  Lawrence  was  in  some 
way  connected  with  the  episode ;  no  one,  however,  could  tell 
exactly  how.  Of  course  that  report  of  her  engagement  to  the 
dreadful  Baron  was  false.  But  where  there  was  so  much  smoke 
there  must  be  some  fire.  And  Mr.  Yates — he  had  been  engaged 
to  her  once,  and  the  affair  had  been  broken  off,  no  one  knew 
why.  Oh,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  a  mystery  here,  if  one  could 
only  find  out  what  it  was !  Those  who  did  not  like  Philip  in- 
timated that  a  low  feeling  of  jealousy  had  prompted  him  to  ex- 
pose the  Baron,  and  that  he  was  the  real  author  of  the  first 

411 


startling  story  in  the  Mail.  The  world  in  general,  however, 
would  not  accept  this  theory ;  it  was  in  the  mind  for  a  little 
hero  worship,  and  it  defended  the  sanctity  of  its  idol.  They 
call  it  a  censorious  world,  but  it  is  capable  of  the  most  genial 
optimism  when  it  is  in  the  mood.  And  so  Mrs.  Cadwallader's 
guests  made  much  of  Philip.  His  hostess  bade  him  sit  by  her. 
"  I  intend  to  treat  you  as  a  distinguished  invalid,"  she  said. 

"  Ah,  but  I  am  neither,"  replied  Philip.  He  was  very  glad, 
however,  to  obey  her  injunction.  "  It  makes  a  man  feel  like  a 
fool  to  have  to  coddle  himself  all  the  time." 

"  We  are  only  too  glad  to  have  you  with  us  again  on  any 
terms,  Philip.  Has  your  mother  gone  back  to  Lexington?  I 
hoped  she  would  come  with  you  this  afternoon." 

"  You're  very  kind — but  she  went  yesterday.  I  shall  go  out 
to-morrow  and  stay  until  I  sail.  I'm  going  to  take  a  run  across, 
you  know." 

"  Oh,  we  shall  see  you  there.  We  go  this  year  earlier  than 
usual — in  May.  I  fancy  that  Mr.  Cadwallader  will  want  to  stay 
at  Trouville  for  a  month  or  two.  Why  can't  you  come  there  ?" 

"  I  can — I  will,  since  you  ask  me.  Would  you  mind  giving 
me  another  cup  of  tea  ?  How  are  you,  Allen  ?  I  suppose  you, 
too,  will  soon  be  taking  flight  with  the  rest  of  us." 

"  Ah,  I  have  some  important  literary  work  on  hand,"  Mr. 
Allen  said,  patronizingly.  "  Something  that  I  can't  do  in  this 
country.  Delighted  to  see  you  out  again,  Yates,  I'm  sure.  It 
was  a  narrow  squeak.  I  told  them  all  along  that  the  fellow  was 
no  baron  at  all.  Wasn't  it  immensely  clever  of  me,  Mrs.  Cad- 
wallader, to  suspect  it  from  the  first  ?" 

"  And  how  clever,  too,  to  conceal  your  suspicions  so  well !" 
Mrs.  Cadwallader  said.  "  Would  you  mind  taking  this  to  Miss 
Linley  ?" 

Mr.  Allen  walked  away,  not  quite  sure  whether  Mrs.  Cad- 
wallader had  meant  to  be  sarcastic  or  not.  He  thought  sarcasm 
was  a  nasty  trick,  especially  in  a  woman.  Of  course,  if  one  had 
exceptional  powers  in  that  way,  it  was  different.  "  You'd  hardly 
know  Yates,  would  you  ?"  he  said  to  Miss  Linley.  "  It  was  a 
beastly  thing  to  do  ;  just  what  one  might  have  expected  from  a 
cad  like  that." 

412 


"  Oh,  the  Baron  !"  said  Miss  Linley,  with  a  shrug  of  her  intel- 
lectually angular  shoulders.  "  Don't  speak  about  the  horrid 
creature !  I  can  never  forgive  myself  for  permitting  mamma  to 
ask  him  to  Cambridge.  In  our  parlours,  you  know  —  and  he 
had  never  even  heard  of  Plato.  Fancy  that !  I  disliked  him 
from  the  first.  I  saw  that  he  wasn't  really  intellectual.  How 
is  your  book  getting  on,  Mr.  Allen  ?  I  enjoyed  your  article  in 
the  last  Northern  Review  so  much.  I  don't  care  what  they  say 
— women  are  silly ;  they  don't  care  for  intellect  in  the  least. 
And  the  men  are  just  as  bad — some  of  them." 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you  agree  with  me.  Of  course,  I've  been 
attacked  bitterly,"  Mr.  Allen  said,  with  conscious  pride,  "  but 
one  must  expect  that.  I  flatter  myself  I've  given  them  some- 
thing to  think  about.  And  the  book  ?  Oh,  that  is  progressing. 
I  run  over  to  London  in  a  few  weeks  to  gather  more  material. 
It  will  create  a  sensation  when  it  is  published.  I  let  Professor 
Bagshaw  read  the  manuscript  of  the  first  two  chapters,  and 
he  says  it  will  be  a  brilliant  piece  of  work.  Isn't  that  Pink- 
erton  coming  in?  What  a  conceited  fellow  he  is!  I  hate 
conceit." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Miss  Linley.  Nevertheless,  she  was  very  glad 
to  have  Mr.  Pinkerton  come  over  and  talk  to  her  presently.  He 
was  a  mine  of  information  on  those  slighter  social  topics  which 
even  she,  in  all  her  might  of  intellect,  did  not  despise.  He  did 
not  always  do  his  powers  full  justice  in  the  paragraphs  which 
he  wrote  for  the  society  papers.  Sometimes  it  was  unfortunate 
to  know  too  much  about  people  whom  you  did  not  want  to  at- 
tack from  a  quarter  that  would  disclose  the  identity  of  their 
assailant.  But  in  conversation  one  could  say  so  much  and  not 
be  held  to  account  for  it. 

"  Yates  seems  to  be  quite  the  hero  of  the  hour,"  Mr.  Pinker- 
ton  said,  with  a  sneer.  "  There  was  something  very  queer 
about  that  whole  affair,  but  then — "  And  he  shook  his  head 
mysteriously; 

"  Oh,  really !"  said  Miss  Linley,  leaning  forward  with  a  look 
of  expectation.  "  Tell  me  all  about  it." 

"  I  dare  say  you  wouldn't  care  to  hear  all." 

"Ah,  I  supposed  there  was  something  beneath  the  surface," 

413 


she  said,  calmly.  "  You  can't  trust  any  one.  I  knew  he  was  an 
adventurer." 

"Who — Yates?"  asked  Mr.  Pinkerton,  with  a  look  of  sur- 
prise. 

"  The  Baron,  of  course  ;  how  can  you  be  so  stupid  ?  And  I 
am  so  sorry  mamma  asked  him  to  Cambridge." 

"  Ah,  the  Baron — certainly  ;  I  wasn't  thinking  of  him  when  I 
spoke.  Although,  of  course,  there  was  his  engagement  to  Miss 
Lawrence — " 

"  I  thought  that  was  denied." 

"  Oh  yes — it  was  denied,"  Mr.  Pinkerton  said,  with  a  smile. 
"  What  amazes  me,  however,  is  that  she  should  be  willing  to 
meet  Yates  again." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

Mr.  Pinkerton  shook  his  head  mysteriously.  "  Oh,  I  can't 
tell  you  that,  Miss  Linley — really,  I  can't.  But  you  remember 
about  their  broken  engagement — there  was  a  very  queer  connec- 
tion between  that  and  the  shooting  business  which  people  seem 
to  be  making  such  a  fuss  over  just  now.  Oh,  very  queer  !  Of 
course,  Yates  is  a  good  enough  sort  of  fellow,  but  some  women 
would  find  it  hard  to  overlook  those  little  irregularities — I  don't 
say  it's  any  crime  to  be  a  little  the  worse  for  wine,  or  to — to  in- 
dulge in  other  things — " 

"  You  mean  like  keeping  a  mistress  ?"  said  Miss  Linley,  with 
a  coolness  that  rather  dazed  him.  "  Oh,  I  had  heard  of  that — 
at  least,  I  gathered  from  some  remarks  of  Miss  TredwelFs  about 
a  certain  Maud — they  weren't  intended  for  my  ears,  I  assure 
you,  but  Miss  Lawrence  looked  distressed,  and  of  course  one 
couldn't  help  suspecting — " 

"  Maud !  Oh,  was  that  the  name  ?"  Mr.  Pinkerton  asked, 
blandly.  He  had  not  expected  to  strike  this  trail  of  informa- 
tion, but  instinct  led  him  to  follow  it  up.  There  was  little,  how- 
ever, that  Miss  Linley  could  tell  him.  Indeed,  she  wasn't  quite 
sure  whether  it  was  Mr.  Yates  or  that  dreadful  Baron  who  had 
been  acquainted  with  a  young  woman  whose  character  was  not 
unimpeachable.  "  Maud  !  it's  an  improper  sort  of  name,  don't 
you  think  ?"  Miss  Linley  said. 

But. Philip's  interview  with  Mildred  has  been  of  the  briefest, 

414 


and  even  if  Mr.  Pinkerton's  suspicions  had  been  justified  there 
would  have  been  nothing  in  it  to  stimulate  curiosity.  Mildred, 
too,  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  past  had  better  be  ig- 
nored. She  had  once  told  him  that  she  preferred  they  should 
be  strangers  to  each  other,  but  she  was  by  no  means  sure  just 
now  that  her  attitude  had  been  either  wise  or  right.  At  all 
events,  she  felt  that  she  could  maintain  it  no  longer.  Philip 
had  done  so  much  for  her,  although  she  had  treated  him  so 
badly.  He  was  right  in  thinking  that  she  knew  something  of 
the  truth.  Daisy  had  kept  her  promise  in  the  face  of  every  temp- 
tation to  break  it.  But  Baretta's  own  wild  outburst  in  her  pres- 
ence, his  rage  against  a  suspected  rival,  had  been  a  sufficient 
enlightenment.  Oh  yes — it  was  all  her  fault !  This  was  what 
she  told  herself  when  she  realized  how  unjust  she  had  been. 
It  was  because  Philip  had  tried  to  save  her  from  the  conse- 
quences of  her  own  folly  that  he  had  nearly  lost  his  life.  She 
had  no  means  of  knowing  what  he  had  done,  but  her  sur- 
mises, fed  by  vague  hints,  took  the  shape  of  certainty  in  her 
mind.  She  was  very  grateful  to  him,  very  severe  in  her  judg- 
ment of  herself.  And  he  would  think  that  she  was  ungrateful 
— that  she  had  not  cared  enough  even  to  send  him  a  single 
friendly  message.  So  when  she  went  up  to  him  and  he  rose  to 
shake  hands  with  her,  she  felt  confused  and  stupid.  "  I  am 
glad  you  are  better,"  she  said,  with  trembling  lips. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  answered,  gravely. 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment  with  piteous  eyes,  and  then 
turned  away.  How  cold  and  formal  her  words  were !  and  yet 
her  heart  was  full  of  tender  sympathy.  And  he  would  never 
understand  that  at  all.  Surely  her  punishment  was  more 
than  she  could  bear.  She  sat  down  in  one  of  the  cushioned 
window-seats,  where  she  was  half  hidden  behind  the  draperies, 
and  gazed  drearily  into  the  street  below.  Daisy  could  go  and 
talk  to  him.  freely — Daisy,  who  she  was  sure  cared  for  him  more 
than  she  would  acknowledge,  and  whom  he  might  well  learn  to 
love  out  of  very  gratitude.  She  had  no  cause  to  blame  him  for 
that.  Why  should  she  expect  him  to  go  on  loving  her  ?  She 
saw  Philip  and  Daisy  together  presently,  and  a  bitter  sense  of 
loneliness  invaded  her  heart.  Men  consoled  themselves  so  easily, 

415 


she  said  to  herself.  Why  should  she  stay  any  longer,  and 
endure  this  torture  ?  But  before  she  could  go  Daisy  intercepted 
her. 

"  Of  course  you're  not  going,"  Daisy  said.  "  Mrs.  Cadwal- 
lader  asked  you  especially  to  stay  to  dinner  —  she  would  be 
greatly  offended." 

"  She  will  excuse  me.     I — I  have  a  headache." 

"  It  isn't  very  kind  to  Philip.  You  have  hardly  spoken  to 
him.  And — and  I  think  you  might  forgive  him — now." 

"Daisy,  I  will  not  permit  you  to  say  such  things!"  Mildred 
cried,  angrily.  "  I  don't  think,"  she  added,  "  that  it  is  a  matter  of 
great  consequence  to — any  one." 

"  Oh,  but  I  told  him  how  anxious  you  were — how  you  called  to 
ask  after  him.  You  see,"  Daisy  went  on,  hastily,  "  his  mother 
mentioned  it  to  me,  and  I  knew — " 

"  I  wish  you  would  be  so  good  as  not  to  interfere  in  my 
affairs." 

She  turned  away,  but  her  friend  laid  a  detaining  hand  upon 
her  arm.  "  You  can  be  just  as  horrid  as  you  choose,  Mildred,  for  I 
know  you  don't  mean  it.  Do  you  suppose  I  can't  understand 
how  she  treated  you  ?  But  I  wouldn't  let  him  think  you  were 
so  heartless  as  not  to  care." 

"  You're  a  very  strange  girl,"  was  Mildred's  reply.  "  There — 
I  will  stay — just  to  please  you.  But  you  must  put  all  those  no- 
tions out  of  your  head.  Everything — is  quite  over — between — " 
She  paused — perhaps  it  was  a  sob  that  she  was  choking  back — 
then  added,  with  a  faint  smile,  "  You  ought  to  know  who  it 
is  that — that  he  cares  for." 

"  What  nonsense  are  you  talking  now  ?"  asked  Daisy,  with  a 
blush.  "  I  never  saw  a  girl  so  obstinate  as  you  are.  But  you 
will  learn  the  truth — by-and-by." 

"  By-and-by  ?"  Mildred  repeated,  vaguely.  She  gave  a  hasty 
glance  about  the  room.  "  Here  is  Mr.  Allen  coming — I  don't 
want  to  talk  with  him  now.  Oh  yes,  I  will  stay.  We  shall  be 
very  good  friends — I  mean,  Philip  and  I.  But  you  mustn't 
imagine  that  we  shall  be  more  than  that.  Oh  yes,"  she  added, 
smiling  again,  "  so  many  things  may  happen — by-and-by." 

So  it  was  a  pleasant  enough  little  party  after  all,  although 

41C 


Mildred  was  placed  at  quite  a  distance  from  Philip  when  they 
sat  down  at  the  dinner-table,  and  indeed  said  very  little  all  the 
evening.  It  was  a  consolation,  she  felt,  to  know  that  Philip 
could  no  longer  fancy  that  she  was  altogether  heartless,  that  she 
had  been  unable  to  forgive  him  even  when  she  thought  he  was 
dying.  But  of  course  he  would  realize  how  foolish  it  was  to 
think  that  they  could  ever  be  more  than  friends. 

Perhaps  she  would  have  been  less  consoled  had  she  overheard 
a  remark  which  Mrs.  Cadwallader  made  to  her  husband  after 
her  guests  had  gone.  "  I  think  it  will  be  Daisy,  after  all,"  Mrs, 
Cadwallader  said. 

"  Daisy  !  what  do  mean  by  that  ?"  he  asked.  "  Is  it  some 
mystery  about  Miss  Tredwell  ?  I  must  ask  her  to  sit  to  me. 
I'd  like  to  paint  that  red  hair  of  hers." 

"  Oh,  you  men  are  so  stupid  !"  his  wife  replied,  with  a  laugh. 
"  Yes,  every  one  of  you !"  And  no  doubt  this  was  all  the 
answer  he  deserved. 


THE   END 


BY  MARY  E.  WILKINS. 


JANE  FIELD.     A  Novel.     Illustrated.     I6mo,  Cloth,  Orna- 
mental, $1  25. 
YOUNG  LUCRETIA,  and  Other  Stories.     Illustrated.     Post 

8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  25. 
GILES  COREY,  YEOMAN.     A  Play,     Illustrated.     32mo, 

Cloth,  Ornamental,  50  cents. 
A  NEW  ENGLAND  NUN,  and  Other  Stories.     1 6mo,  Cloth, 

Ornamental,  $1  25. 
A  HUMBLE  ROMANCE,  and  Other  Stories.     16mo,  Cloth, 

Ornamental,  $1  25. 

The  pathos  of  New  England  life,  its  intensities  of  repressed  feeling,  its 
homely  tragedies  and  its  tender  humor,  have  never  been  better  told  than 
by  Mary  E.  Wilkins,  and  in  her  own  field  she  stands  to-day  without  a 
rival. — Boston  Courier. 

It  takes  just  such  distinguished  literary  art  as  Mary  E.  Wilkins  possesses 
to  give  an  episode  of  New  England  its  soul,  pathos;  and  poetry. — N.  Y. 
Times. 

The  simplicity,  purity,  and  quaintness  of  these  stories  set  them  apart  in 
a  niche  of  distinction  where  they  have  no  rivals. — Literary  World,  Boston. 

The  author  has  the  unusual  gift  of  writing  a  short  story  which  is  com- 
plete in  itself,  having  a  real  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end. —  Observer, 
N.  Y. 

A  gallery  of  striking  studies  in  the  humblest  quarters  of  American 
country  life.  No  one  has  dealt  with  this  kind  of  life  better  than  Miss 
Wilkins.  Nowhere  are  there  to  be  found  such  faithful,  delicately  drawn, 
sympathetic,  tenderly  humorous  pictures'.— JV*.  Y.  Tribune. 

The  charm  of  Miss  Wilkins's  stories  is  in  her  intimate  acquaintance  and 
comprehension  of  humble  life,  and  the  sweet  human  interest  she  feels  and 
makes  her  readers  partake  of,  in  the  simple,  common,  homely  people  she 
d  raws. — Springfield  Republican. 

The  author  has  given  us  studies  from  real  life  which  must  be  the  result 
of  a  lifetime  of  patient,  sympathetic  observation.  .  .  .  No  one  has  done 
the  same  kind  of  work  so  lovingly  and  so  well. — Christian  Register, 
Boston. 


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BY  MARIA  LOUISE  POOL. 


KATHARINE  NORTH.     A  Novel.     Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Orna- 
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"  Katharine  North  "  is,  from  an  artistic  and  literary  stand-point,  Miss 
Pool's  best  work,  and  will  take  high  rank  among  the  novels  of  the  year. 
The  story  is  an  intensely  interesting  one,  and  is  most  skilfully  constructed. 
— Boston  Traveller. 

One  of  the  best  novels  given  the  reading  public  for  a  long  time,  and  its 
character  sketching  is  wonderful,  clear,  yet  well  defined  ;  like  the  etching 
of  a  master.  Her  characters  are  not  wooden  men  and  women ;  they 
seem  to  work  out  their  own  salvation  or  destruction  in  their  own  particu- 
lar style. — St.  Louis  Republic. 

MRS.  KEATS  BRADFORD.     A  Novel.     Post  8vo,  Cloth, 

Ornamental,  $1  25. 

Miss  Pool's  novels  have  the  characteristic  qualities  of  American  life. 
They  have  an  indigenous  flavor.  The  author  is  on  her  own  ground,  in- 
stinct with  American  feeling  and  purpose. — JV.  Y.  Tribune. 

The  dialogues  are  very  natural,  and  the  book  is  very  wholesome  reading. 
No  one  who  begins  it  will  be  able  to  give  it  up  until  the  last  page  has  been 
reached  and  mastered. — W.  Y.  Journal  of  Commerce. 

The  pictures  of  life  in  the  New  England  village  arc  drawn  with  a  hand 
of  unusual  cleverness. — Boston  Courier. 

ROWENY  IN  BOSTON.     A  Novel.     Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Orna- 
mental, $1  25. 

Is  a  surprisingly  good  story.  ...  It  is  a  very  delicately  drawn  story  in 
all  particulars.  It  is  sensitive  in  the  matter  of  ideas  and  of  phrase.  Its 
characters  make  a  delightful  company.  It  is  excellent  art  and  rare  enter- 
tainment.— N.  Y.  Sim. 

Like  Roweny  at  her  brush,  Miss  Pool  may  be  said  to  have  the  "  touch." 
By  a  few  lively  strokes  of  her  pen,  her  characters  are  made  clear  in  out- 
line, and  are  then  left  to  explain  themselves  by  their  own  words  and  ac- 
tions.— Nation,  N.  Y. 

DALLY.     A  Novel.     Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  25. 

A  delightful  story.  .  .  .  The  story  is  alive  from  the  first  to  the  last 
chapter,  and  is  of  absorbing  and  intense  interest. —  Watchman,  Boston. 

There  is  not  a  lay  figure  in  the  book ;  all  arc  flesh  and  blood  creations. 
.  .  .  The  humor  of  "Dally"  is  grateful  to  the  sense;  it  is  provided  in 
abundance,  together  with  touches  of  pathos,  an  inseparable  concomitant. 
— Philadelphia  Ledger. 

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